


Command Me to Be Well

by prosopopeya



Series: Season 15 Fix-Its [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Eileen Leahy, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Episode: s15e18 Despair, Fix-It, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosopopeya/pseuds/prosopopeya
Summary: Dean did a lot of thinking about when and how he would get Cas back. Months of it, actually, stretching into a year, because while Sam and Eileen were settling into their new lives, Dean was stuck. He was stuck in a faraway corner of the bunker, dark and empty and hollow, ringing with the sound of a vibrating phone.So when he falls to his knees in that same room, exhausted, hurting, breathless, and he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Cas, he realizes that he doesn't have a single clue aboutwhatto do now. Getting Cas out had been easy--actually, it'd been the opposite of that--but the planning of it, the methodical desperation of one attempt after the other had been a familiar rhythm. It'd been soothing almost, solid, something to focus on that wasn't Cas's eyes, watery and jubilant in a way Dean hadn't ever seen that up close on anyone, let alone Cas.And now Cas is pulling him to his feet, and Dean's stumbling, and he instinctually grabs Cas's arm, and his hand lights up with a fire that he isn't prepared for."Hello, Dean."
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Season 15 Fix-Its [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024672
Comments: 130
Kudos: 779
Collections: Bisexual Visibility, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msmoocow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoocow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Some Boys are Sleeping Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/303988) by [prosopopeya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosopopeya/pseuds/prosopopeya). 



> The third installment in my series of fix-it fics for the ending of Supernatural, and this one is the sad one (until it gets happy again). 
> 
> This fic is in conversation with my first SPN fic, [Some Boys are Sleeping Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/303988), though it isn't necessary to read that to understand this one. I'm lifting that Dean and his backstory and the overall angsty vibe of that fic and giving it new life here, and also, a happy ending. That fic started my interest in writing about Dean's trouble accepting his sexuality, which eventually became the running through-line of just about every Dean/Cas fic I wrote after that. His journey means a lot to me, and even more now that he is bi (in Spanish), which is doubly personally significant to me. 
> 
> I still haven't seen past early s10 -- I should have more time to work on that now that this fic is done! Thank you to all of my wonderful betas!!

Dean did a lot of thinking about when and how he would get Cas back. Months of it, actually, stretching into a year, because while Sam and Eileen were settling into their new lives, Dean was stuck. He was stuck in a faraway corner of the bunker, dark and empty and hollow, ringing with the sound of a vibrating phone. 

So when he falls to his knees in that same room, exhausted, hurting, breathless, and he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Cas, he realizes that he doesn't have a single clue about _what_ to do now. Getting Cas out had been easy--actually, it'd been the opposite of that--but the _planning_ of it, the methodical desperation of one attempt after the other had been a familiar rhythm. It'd been soothing almost, solid, something to focus on that wasn't Cas's eyes, watery and jubilant in a way Dean hadn't ever seen that up close on anyone, let alone Cas.

And now Cas is pulling him to his feet, and Dean's stumbling, and he instinctually grabs Cas's arm, and his hand lights up with a fire that he isn't prepared for. 

"Hello, Dean," Cas says, a smile only touching the corners of his mouth, but his eyes-- 

Dean swallows hard and tries to move past the vision of Cas not as he is now, alive and almost incandescent with it, but as he was then, open and honest and about to die. Involuntarily, almost as if his body is tired of waiting for his mind to tell it what to do, he finds himself pulling Cas into a hug. He wishes he could feel it, but he's numb as Cas leans into him, as his arms reach around his back, as he holds Dean tighter, maybe, than he ever had before. Or maybe Dean's imagining it.

It isn't until that moment that he remembers Sam is in the room, and suddenly he isn't numb anymore; suddenly Cas is hot against him, or maybe that's Dean's face, and he pulls out of the embrace, ducking Cas's eyes.

"Cas," Sam says behind him, and Dean takes another five steps back because he really hadn't planned for this. 

It's stupid, really. You'd think he would've thought about what he would do when he got Cas back--because it was always a _when_ , not an if--but instead there'd been this black hole inside of him, swallowing up every word that Cas said, swallowing up any idea of what might come next, swallowing up how Dean couldn't say anything but _don't_ , but Cas did it anyway. And there it is now, reaching through the blackness as Sam and Cas hug beside him. This feeling is better; this feeling is easier, and he allows the anger to spread out, to fill him up, as he watches Cas be so easy, so light as he steps away from Sam and looks to Dean again, eyes full of a fondness that makes Dean ache. 

He fakes it. He fakes it all the way through dinner, all the way through drinks. He fakes it the whole time that Cas is sitting there, laughing, smiling, free and light in a way that Dean's never seen him before. He wonders what that must feel like, and it takes all of five seconds to recognize that feeling as jealousy, and he clamps down on it, hard. 

Sam's watching him, he knows, and Sam fills in all the silences, keeps the conversation going. Once, when Cas isn't looking, Sam catches Dean's eye and gives him a look, somewhere between _are you okay?_ and _what the fuck?_ and that's when Dean's mouth goes dry because he can't do this. He _can't_ do this, any of this, all of it, and that--that's Cas's fault. 

It's Cas's fault when Dean stands up suddenly, clearing his throat. It's Cas's fault when he gestures vaguely toward his room and says something about being wiped, about needing to hit the hay, about needing to put a few hours' sleep between himself and the Empty. It's Cas's fault that he looks so small and deflated as Dean turns his back on him and walks down the hall. The click of his door is a final kind of sound, and the last thing Dean hears before he eventually falls asleep.

**~**

They have a few days together, the three of them, and Dean spends them watching how unburdened Cas looks, and the way that seems to reach into his face whenever he looks at Dean. The way it flickers, less confident each time, the more Dean can only give him a hint of a smile before something sick, hot, and long since buried twists in his stomach, threatening to try to fight its way out again.

Then Eileen shows up, and it's a party, supposedly. Dean goes through the motions. There are smiles and laughs that each carve another piece out of him until the night's over and they all turn in, and there isn't much left of Dean when he crawls into bed. 

In the morning, Sam and Eileen say their goodbyes, and Dean tries to miss it, tries to be too busy in the kitchen to linger very long in the hallway. The bunker feels huge, empty, and stifling once they leave, and he knows that it's just the two of them now. They haven't been alone since--since he had to watch Cas die, again. Since Cas made him watch him die again. Since Cas made him stand there and let Cas sacrifice himself for Dean, one last time, with Dean on the floor, powerless and utterly voiceless.

He knows Cas is in the doorway behind him before he says anything, but Dean doesn't turn around. He needlessly shakes the skillet around just to put some noise between them, to alleviate some of the pressure of Cas's silence as he waits--waits for something. 

And maybe the worst part of it is that when Dean finally does turn around, Cas is gone, and he's at once flooded with an aching disappointment and a guilty relief. Dean doesn't go after him, and he doesn't see Cas again until later that night, after Dean's been sitting with this mixture of loneliness and fear, of longing and repulsion, all day. And then one day turns into two, into three, until they start bleeding together, and Dean's itching for a hunt, something, anything to draw him out of this place. But they check the news every day, their conversation stilted and uncomfortable over the tops of their computers, and there's just--nothing. 

Cas brings it up first one day while Dean does what he guesses someone could call doomscrolling, if only because he's actually looking for some doom to go out and fix. 

"Dean," he says quietly, a hesitant softness in his voice.

"What?" Dean doesn't look up from his screen and he considers hunching over, but he finds that he doesn't think he can move at all, actually. 

"There hasn't been anything for a while now," he says gently, and Dean stops, his hands over the keys. "Do you think maybe it's time--"

"Time to what?" His voice comes out sharper than he meant it, but he thinks maybe it covers the insecurity, the fear. What is he if he doesn't have something to hunt? "Stop looking? Because you know the second we do, something will pop up." 

Cas looks so freaking--well, there's pity there, but also a fondness that Dean realizes should have a bigger name than that, and he balls his hand into a fist, hidden behind the screen. 

"Or it won't." He tilts his head, eyes sweeping over Dean, seeing way too much, knowing way more than Dean's ever felt comfortable with. "Or maybe it's time to choose a different path." 

He knows that's what Sam's doing. Sure, Sam comes around to help catalog things, and sure, they keep in touch with the people they have left, but all Dean can hear is that it's time to take a break, time to find a new way of life, as if that's easy for Dean, as if that's ever been something he felt right doing. And with Cas sitting across from him, he can almost picture a life that he could have, if he wanted, if he felt like he could reach out and take it.

"I'm happy with my path," he bites out, and then he's gone, headed to the garage. Maybe he doesn't have a hunt to go on, but he can at least pretend like he does and take the Impala out on the road, roll down the windows, and remember what it was like when he knew what he had to do because he didn't have many other options. Color in between the lines; that's one of the first things his dad taught him. Don't reach for something else, don't push, because that wasn't what Dean was meant for.

And maybe what sucks the most, underneath it all, is that all he can think about when he's driving is Cas on the seat next to him. He got Cas out of the Empty, but, he realizes as he drives, one hand hanging out the window, the other gripping the wheel tight against his palm, he still fucking _misses_ him. Because this thing they have now? It isn't what they had before.

Listen: all he wants is his best friend back. That's all he's ever wanted--right? A friend, a best friend; that's all he's ever needed or wanted Cas to be. He didn't need Cas to be anything more or less. _Friend_ is a good word, best friend even better, because when the hell did he ever stick around long enough to make one of those? When the hell did any of them live long enough? He just got lucky that Cas is allergic to staying dead. Best friend is novel enough, is _enough_ , all on its own terms. 

Dean doesn't want to name the feeling that he carries into the bunker with him when he gets back. He thinks he probably knows what it is, could call it something lame like a broken heart, but probably more likely, it's just loneliness, plain and simple. Because it shouldn't be like this between him and Cas, okay? It just shouldn't. After everything, all the crap they've ever been through, don't they deserve something uncomplicated? Just, like, a second to breathe and remember why they've been fighting to keep each other alive for years? 

When Dean goes to eat dinner at the table, Cas is there, book in his hand, head tilted as he turns a page. He doesn't look up at Dean as he sits, but Dean watches Cas like he’s a bomb about to go off. Dean could say something; Dean _should_ say something, but whatever might come out of his mouth would have to be some kind of acknowledgment of what's going on in his head, unless he's going to ask about what Cas is reading, and he'd rather die than make small talk. 

Finally, Cas says, "I sense we should talk," but doesn't look up from his book. 

A million things flash through Dean's mind then, a million half-formed sentences, a million feelings, too difficult to put into words. He looks over at Cas, casually reading, relaxed, comfortable, and it hits him then. This impossible, heavy weight between them now? That's all on Cas. _He_ went and changed the rules. _He_ crossed that line. Not that there was ever a line that needed to be crossed.

"Seems like we've said enough." He doesn't watch Cas react to that, doesn't watch as Cas looks up from his book, wounded, but maybe more than anything, pitying. 

"I said what I said for _me_ , Dean," he says, and Dean guesses they really are doing this. He's thrumming with a need to--to throw the plate against the wall, to kick his chair over, to tell Cas to get out, but he swallows that all down.

"I meant it when I said that I knew... things couldn't change," he paraphrases, and something in Dean's eyes makes him look down, only sneaking glances now. "And I meant it when I said that that was enough. I don't need anything different. I'm happy," he catches himself, and there's another quick look, but then he seems to force himself to meet Dean's gaze. "I can be happy with you, just as things were."

There it is again: that lightness, that ease, that sense of freedom that's rolling off of Cas that Dean has never, not once, been able to feel. It sparks something dark and almost uncontrollable inside him; almost, he thinks, dimly, because he left Chuck wailing in a field and didn't give into his darker impulses then. But somehow, that was easier than this; maybe because that was an ending, and this could be a beginning. 

"Yeah, well. You blew any chance of that." His voice is all sharp angles as he leans over his plate, but he can still see Cas shrink. 

"Dean--nothing has to change," Cas starts, but Dean cuts him off.

"But you _did_ change things, Cas. _You_ changed them. And this?" He gestures between them, eyebrows raised. "This is all on you." 

He starts to pick up his plate to leave, but Cas beats him to it, standing quickly, the sound of his chair scraping on the floor suddenly too loud.

"I'm not sorry." His voice is gravelly, hard, like it had been years ago, sparks still dying on a wooden floor. When Dean looks up, Cas opens his hands at his sides, eyebrows raised. "I won't apologize for telling the truth. I did what I had to do to save you."

"That's bullshit," Dean grinds out. "You didn't have to--We could've found another way, Cas." Before Cas can start to reply, Dean snaps, "I had to watch you die. _Again_." It's a moment of weakness that he doesn't regret if only because it breaks through the cloud of anger rolling off of Cas, forces him to look, at least a little, regretful. 

"I didn't want to hurt you, Dean." His voice is soft again, and it's almost like this is a mirror of the Cas then: where he'd been almost jubilantly resigned to the inevitable, this Cas standing before him now is defeated and hopeful for what could, but can't, be. "Quite the opposite, actually." He hesitates, then takes a small step forward. "I knew that it would be hard for you to hear, Dean, but--"

Nope. This conversation is over. Dean does get up then and take a step backward, a panic flaring and causing him to raise his hands defensively.

"Don't, Cas. Really, this time, _don't_ ," he says heavily, a warning, and Cas stops, his mouth closing, lips forming a hard line.

"Are we really doing this again, Dean?" he asks, voice quiet, body rigid. There's an anger in Cas now, maybe, but mostly a kind of resignation. 

Dean remembers Purgatory then, kneeling in the mud, the rough bark of a tree against his hand. He'd prayed to Cas then. He said he was sorry. He said he forgave him. He wishes he could say those things now, but the words die in his throat. Again.

"Very well. I can play my part." Cas starts for the door, stops in the doorway, half looks over his shoulder. "Come find me when you're ready." It's an invitation, a request, but it's not pleading.

Dean thought he'd been alone before; he was wrong.

**~**

Later, Sam calls to say hi.

"Hey, put me on speaker. Let me talk to Cas."

"Oh, uh. He's, uh. He's busy." Dean's sitting at the table with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a mess of papers, books, overturned chairs to keep him company. 

"Busy?" Sam must switch the phone to his other ear; Dean hears the ruffle of fabric, a TV in the background, and the sound of something sizzling as Sam cooks. "With what?"

Dean should be able to think up a lie, something ridiculous and stupid, something only a nerdy broken angel would do, but his mind flashes back on an overplayed film reel of Cas--watching cartoons, picking through his dad's journal, playing Twister--and Dean can't seem to find the lie.

"Dean." Sam sounds more serious now. "Where's Cas?" 

At Dean's silence, Sam sighs, frustrated.

"Seriously? Again? I don't understand, Dean. You spent the better part of a _year_ trying to get him back, and as soon as he shows up, it's like you can't say two words to him. Did he leave again?" 

"It was his choice," Dean lies.

Sam sighs again, and Dean can picture him, shaking his head. 

"I don't think it was, Dean."

**~**

The next time he sees Cas, one month later, it's an accident. He and Sam had plans, a little brotherly getaway that Dean's pretending like he doesn't know was Eileen's idea because Dean's by himself in the bunker most of the time now. And Dean pretends like that's fine, because why wouldn't it be? What's wrong with a little peace and quiet? Hasn't he earned that?

Sometimes, when he's sitting in the bunker late at night, the darkness somehow seeping under the cracks in the door, he thinks that yeah, he's earned this.

They stop off at a bar to get some dinner, have a few, but Eileen calls and Sam waves Dean on to go inside and grab them a table. When he steps inside, he sees Cas almost immediately. He's sitting at the bar, a drink in front of him, reading the newspaper. He turns the page delicately, smooths it out against the polished wood, flattening it with the palm of his hand. 

Dean's out the door again, the world feeling small suddenly around him, a cold sweat on the back of his neck, but he bumps into Sam before he can clear the doorway.

"Whoa, what's the rush?" 

Dean starts to mutter some excuse, but Sam's already looking past him.

"Is that Cas?" he asks Dean, who tries to get around him, but Sam grabs his shoulder. "Dean--that's _Cas_."

"I know," Dean says, trying to pull away, but Sam grips him tighter; he tries again to jerk away, but Sam's hold is tight. He forgets, sometimes, how strong Sam can be, when he wants to be. Sam gives him a look, a serious kind of therapist look, a you-should-know-better look, and frowns at him.

"I'm going in to see Cas. You should too." 

Dean stands in the doorway as Sam walks over to Cas, and if he tried, he could probably hear them. As it is, he watches Cas: surprise, happiness. He gets up to hug Sam, they clap each other on the back. And then Cas is looking, searching, and finds Dean, frozen by the door. Dean can't read whatever flickers over Cas's face then, and it's gone by the time he's turned back to Sam again.

When they sit down, Sam is all easy smiles when Cas is looking, but he's shooting dirty looks at Dean when he isn't. 

"So... What are you doing here?" Sam asks, and he's freaking happy to see Cas. Another twist of the knife in Dean's gut.

"I've been helping people. Little good deeds here and there. The owner of this place was alone, and dying." Cas looks down at the table, a soft sadness in his eyes. "She needed someone to keep her company until the end. And I promised I would look after things for a little while, make sure the new owner wouldn't make a 'mess of things.'" There are no actual air quotes, but Dean can almost hear this ghost of a woman in Cas's voice just then. "He's letting me stay at her apartment for the time being."

"Plus," Cas says, picking his head up, giving Sam a smile, "I like it here." He opens his mouth to elaborate, but then the waiter is coming over with waters and menus.

"Hey, Steve." His voice is warm, his tone familiar, his smile as bright as his neon nail polish as he sets their drinks down. 

"Hello, Corey," Cas says, small and shy.

"Who are these handsome fellows?" Corey glances between Sam and Dean, expectant, and Sam's face has lit up with a wonderful, delighted curiosity as he glances between Cas and Corey, whose hand is now resting on the back of Cas's chair. Dean's eyes are on his hand, where his fingers just brush the back of Cas's shoulders, the bright green nail polish radiant against Cas's coat.

"These are some old friends," Cas says, gesturing. "Sam and Dean." 

"Well, well. Any friend of Steve's." His voice is warm, suggestive, lilting, laughing. "I hope they visit more often." Corey grins widely and winks, presumably at Sam, but he turns the full force of it onto Cas before he walks off, back to work.

Sam's eyes are bright as they dart between Corey's retreating back and Cas, who continues to get smaller and shier as he picks up his glass and takes a prim sip.

"Who was that?" Sam asks.

"Corey," is Cas's short reply, and he puts his drink down and starts fidgeting with the edge of his napkin.

"Clearly," Sam grins, then nudges Cas with his elbow. "He seems nice." 

"He is." Cas is keeping it practically monosyllabic, and he starts examining his menu in great detail. He does not look at Dean.

Sam huffs a laugh, charmed by it all, and starts to say something else when Dean stands up abruptly, the chair dragging. Finally, Cas looks up, but Dean is staring at the table.

"Be right back," he says, with no intention of coming back, before he stalks outside. 

The cool night air and the metal of the Impala's hood have only begun to seep into Dean's skin and lower his blood pressure when he hears footsteps behind him.

"Later, Sam," he barks.

"It's just a flirtation." Cas's words are soft, gentle, an olive branch, and Dean turns around. Cas looks the same as ever, and Dean's heart constricts, his stomach churns. He feels a surge of warmth and revulsion. This is wrong on every level; _he's_ wrong, for pushing Cas away, for wanting to pull Cas closer.

"Whatever," he grumbles, turning away again, leaning against the car. 

The gravel crunches behind him, and he feels Cas get closer, a radiating warmth against his back that threatens to burn too hot. 

"It's good to see you again." Cas's voice is so warm, so sincere, and Dean can't take it. He whirls around, venom in his veins. 

"I don't owe you anything," Dean says, his words sharp, and he points a finger at Cas as he steps closer, but Cas holds his ground, his brow furrowing. "You saved me. I saved you. We're square now." 

Finally, finally, that soft, gentle look of acceptance bleeds out of Cas's eyes. His jaw sets, his back straightens. Dean's almost relieved. 

"You never _owed_ me anything, Dean. I never _asked_ for anything," he replies sharply, and Dean's reminded of the old days, with Cas cold and scary, all blunt truths and hard facts, studying Dean like he was a difficult puzzle, something Cas needed to pull apart and put back together again. The moment runs between them, each one staring down the other, daring someone to make the next move.

"Yeah, well. Maybe you should ask Corey," Dean says, a bitter note in his voice, and it seems he found the right nerve to strike because Cas's eyes go wide and then settle into a fire that Dean also remembers from those early days.

"You have no right," he says, his voice all harsh angles, "to show up here and say anything about the way I'm living my life. I don't owe _you_ anything, either." He steps back, spreading his arms. "What more can I give you? What more would _you_ ask of _me_?"

When Dean doesn't have an answer, when all he can do is open and close his mouth, Cas nods and takes another step back.

"Don't worry, Dean. We're square." He turns and heads back into the bar.

**~**

Dean isn't sure how Sam makes it back to the motel, but Dean's sitting on the bed, beer in his hand, when Sam opens the door and stops in the doorway. His anger doesn't burn as bright as Cas's, but it's just as searing.

"I don't know what to say to you," he says finally, and Dean shrugs.

"Great. Glad we had this talk." 

Sam scoffs again and slams the door, steps in a circle like he's about to leave the conversation, but he whirls back on Dean.

"Whatever it is that's going on between you and Cas, you need to fix it," he says heavily, his gaze heavier. "After everything we've been through, you're... I don't know _what_ you're doing, but it's stupid, and I'm not going to be a part of it anymore." 

Sam snatches the door open again and storms out, and Dean is left in a crappy motel room, a crappy beer in his hand, the stink of an argument hanging heavy in the air. It's funny because he'd just been thinking about his dad, and then Sam goes and storms out, and Dean's alone, and he's a teenager again--hell, a kid again, watching his family slipping through his fingers.

He's forgiven his dad for a lot, moved on, but sometimes those old wounds sneak up on you, just for old time's sake, he guesses. He was thinking about some hunt he and his dad had been on, and Dean was young--honestly had no business being there. They were canvassing the apartment building, looking for the ghostly ground zero. A guy answered the door, and Dean hadn't ever seen a guy like that, not in real life, maybe on the TV, usually the butt of a joke. John couldn't tell at the time, but Dean was fascinated, and Dean himself couldn't quite put it into words, but he just didn't know that a guy could _be_ like that.

By the time John gripped Dean's shoulder and yanked him away, marched him down the hall, started muttering about fruits under his breath, Dean figured it out. Guys aren't _supposed_ to be like that.

And he's carried that around for a long time; carried it all through those times John forced him to go to school for a stretch at a time, when Dean brushed against the idea of a friendship only to run away before it became anything more than that. When he was older, when he was drunk and fumbling in an alley outside a bar with a guy with an accent and shining green eyes, Dean made a deal with himself: it's okay if it's sex. It's okay if it's _just_ sex because men like sex, and men sleep around, and men don't let feelings get in the way, and real men aren't gay. 

And, most importantly: no one would ever know. He turned up the straight, made sure to keep the ratio of chicks to dudes pretty heavily skewed. He would never be, could never be _that_ kind of guy. 

It's been a long time since he's had to worry about any of that, though. Dean's been, you know, a little busy, mopping up one apocalypse before the next one can start, and he hasn't really had a lot of time for screwing around. If he's honest with himself, he didn't really want to either, didn't want to chase something physical and warm only for it to disappear again the next day. He'd rather focus on what he had before he lost it again. But if he's _really_ honest with himself? Yeah, he had a few moments--just a few, not many, scattered here and there over the years--where a guy turned his head. That's all it was though, all it'd been for a while.

Dean takes another pull of his beer, drinking deep, tasting nothing. Sam is right; they don't have many people left anymore, though things seem stable, for now. Dean could start setting down roots, but listen, he's tired. He's set down too many roots only to have them torn up again, watched too many people die; no, he doesn't really want to start over. Dean is wrong, but he doesn't know if he can make it right. Finally, he grabs the Impala's keys.

It's 4am, and he's idling in the car outside of the bar and Cas's place--well, that old lady's apartment. The bar has long since closed up shop for the night, the windows dark and eerie in the grey darkness of the early morning, and the apartment sits above with a light still on. He pulled up a few minutes ago--or five, or ten, or twenty--and has just been sitting here, music blaring loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. He's pretty sick of hearing them at this point.

He's surprised when there's a shape in the window suddenly, and he recognizes it with an aching familiarity. Cas lingers, staring out at Dean, and then he's gone again. Dean's breathing is already shaky as he gets out of the car, the hinges creaking as he slams the door shut. Cas emerges, his coat swaying behind him, and Dean takes a step toward him, feigning a casual attitude that he does not actually feel.

Cas stops in front of him, a safe distance away. 

"Sam said he yelled at you," Cas says instead of hello, and Dean rolls his eyes upward.

"Yeah. He did." 

Silence again, until Cas asks, hesitant, hard, "Why are you here?"

It's a good question that deserves a good answer, but Dean doesn't have any to give him. All he has is months and months of picturing Cas throwing this at his feet and disappearing before Dean could do anything with it. And--and, he tells himself, forcefully, he didn't want it. He didn't _want_ it.

"This is all your fault," he snaps, icy, relishing in the sting in Cas's face.

" _My_ fault? I _saved_ you." Cas narrows his eyes.

"No," Dean says, shaking his head, "no, it didn't have to be like that. It didn't have to--I told you not to say it, Cas," his voice breaks, but he doesn't want to go down that route; he straightens, tightens his jaw, hardens his gaze. "Things were good. They were good. _We_ were good." 

Cas shakes his head. "They still can be. _We_ still can be. I don't see why--"

"No," Dean grinds out, coming a step closer, "no, _you_ did this. You messed it all up." 

A laugh escapes from Cas, strangled and broken, and Dean hates the sound of it.

"How? By telling you how I feel? Again, Dean," he steps forward, and now all that distance between them is gone, and they're in each other's space, the night air cool, the moon bright in an otherwise empty night sky. The streetlights dance on the pavement, reflect their light up into Cas's face, into his eyes. "I don't want things to change--"

In the dimness, Dean can see Cas's eyelashes as they sweep his cheek, and Dean makes a decision. Really, he'd been gearing up to make this decision since back in the motel room before he grabbed his keys; he just hadn't been able to fully picture it, to realize it completely in his mind. He needs to make this right, but there is no right answer here. What Cas wants, what Cas can't have, and what Dean wants and what he can't give him are all mixed up, jumbled together with a sense of obligation, of a need to please everyone, to soothe tensions and to deescalate. To compromise. They can't have happily ever after; Dean can't give him that. But this? Dean can give Cas this. Cas can have this part of him, even if others are closed off to him now. 

Cas's words get swallowed up, because suddenly, Dean's mouth is on Cas, and his hands are fisting in his coat, and the force of it all leaves Cas stunned for a moment, still under Dean's desperation. 

"Dean," he tries to murmur into the kiss, but Dean just kisses him harder, tangles a hand in his hair and tugs, angling Cas's head where he wants it, and finally, finally, he feels Cas give in. The hand that had reflexively grabbed Dean's wrist curls around it instead, and there's a hand on Dean's back now, and all Dean can hear is sharp intakes of breath as their mouths move together. 

He starts backing Cas up, slowly at first, and then as fast as Cas can manage without stumbling, and Cas's back hits the wall by the entrance to his apartment with a soft sound, but not softer than the sound Cas makes. This needs to happen fast, faster than Dean can think about it, before he can think better of it, and he takes a hand off Cas to fumble for the door, tugging at it uselessly.

"Dean," Cas tries, immediately muffled by Dean, but finally he huffs a soft laugh and pushes Dean off him, with some force. "Dean." He holds up a key, and Dean flushes, steps back, his eyes following Cas's every move as he fits the key into the lock. 

Dean is full of urgency, though a new kind; a frantic, uncertain kind. It's almost like he's spinning, arms out to each side, going around and around, the world topsy turvy around him, and he hasn't found that one spot, that one thing to hold onto to keep him from falling over, so any minute now--any minute now he'll come tumbling down.

The door opens, and Cas starts pocketing the key, but Dean is already on him, mouth on the back of his neck as he hurries Cas through the door and lets it close behind him. Cas turns in his arms, breathless, and Dean finds his mouth again and pins him against the wall, until finally Cas tries to start leading them up the stairs. Upsettingly, this means they have to pull away from each other. Dean's lips are flushed; his heart is beating hard, loud, fast, and he's still afraid of what will happen when this bubble bursts, afraid that Cas will try to say something once they start heading upstairs. 

Instead, when they reach the top of the stairs, Cas turns to him, his eyes darker than Dean's ever seen them, and he reaches for him; he slides his fingers under the lapel of Dean's jacket and draws him closer into the slowest kiss of the night. There's a painful tenderness in the way Cas's mouth unfolds against his, pries Dean apart, fits against him. Then Cas is pulling away and unlocking the door.

Dean's glad it's over and wonders, maybe--maybe that was worse than Cas trying to put this into words.

Cas clearly hasn't touched anything about the way the lady left this place, though there are some boxes strewn about, half packed, some gaps on the wall where things used to hang. It's hard to see anything of Cas here at all, really, and something inside Dean reminds him: that's because this isn't Cas's home. He doesn't belong here. Dean squeezes his eyes shut; he can't think those kinds of things when he's trying to fit Cas into this part of his life. 

The keys jangle as they drop into a dish by the door, and then Cas is standing in front of him, his lips redder than ever, his hands hanging at his sides. See, this is why he didn't want things to slow down. There's an awkwardness here now that they're looking at one another, forced to stop, forced to realize what it is that they're doing. What Dean's doing.

"Dean," Cas starts, but Dean shakes his head.

"Don't," he pleads, again. "Don't, please. Just--" He reaches for him, and Cas, through a frown, steps into Dean's embrace. He tries to go for Dean's hand, but Dean cups the back of his head again, fingers lacing into his hair, and convinces Cas to lean into his frame. 

It takes a few moments, but not too many, before Dean finds that frantic place again, and he leans into it, fingers pressing into the small of Cas's back, his skin warm through his shirt. Cas seems content to stand here, to learn Dean's mouth, to gasp for air when Dean lets him, but Dean--Dean needs this to be something more, something less, something more like any old hookup, and if there's a flash of pain, of guilt at that thought, he drowns it out by kissing Cas deeper, relishing in Cas's muffled murmur as Dean's tongue slips past his lips. 

Dean peels his own jacket off and drops it on the floor. God, it's been so long since he did this, since he felt something beneath his fingertips so decidedly... _not_ a chick. He pretends like the rush isn't for Cas, isn't _about_ Cas, as he reaches under his coat and jacket and starts tugging his shirt, pulling it from his waistband. It's Dean's hand that's the first to find skin, to slip under Cas's shirt, to trace fingertips over his spine, and to feel Cas shiver under his touch. It's Dean who pulls back finally, who catches Cas's eye and then looks at the couch, then over his shoulder at the bedroom, and back at Cas, a question hanging in the air, unspoken because Dean doesn't trust himself to ask it. 

Cas, though, he seems too lost to answer for a moment, and he chews at the corner of his lip as Dean watches him try to find the right answer here.

"Hey." Dean breaks his own rule and cups Cas's face, a dangerous move that causes something to flutter in his chest, but he tells himself this is all part of the hookup game, right? "It's okay." It's easier to tell Cas that when it's so clear that he needs to hear it, and Dean finds a smile. "What do you want?"

Cas's eyes flicker shut at that, his breath hitches; he sways slightly on his feet. To see Cas like this, it feels... wrong, forbidden, and something small and dark from the corner of his mind threatens to tell him--that's because _it is_. He blinks it away, rubs his thumb over Cas's jaw instead.

"I..." He swallows, his throat bobbing, and Dean's eyes follow the movement darkly. 

"Bed or couch?" Dean offers, and Cas's eyes flick between the options again. He knows this isn't Cas's first time, but it's not like he's some kind of pro, and he can feel Cas's lack of experience as he turns back to face him.

"Bed?" he says uncertainly, and Dean nods, grins, slips an arm around Cas's back again as he starts moving them in that direction.

"That's a start," Dean says, easy now because he's found a familiar bravado, a comfortable confidence. "You say the word, okay?" 

"What word?" Cas asks, throat heavy, and Dean laughs despite himself, his head dipping low to Cas's shoulder. Cas is studying him, cautious, when he picks his head back up.

"'No.' 'Yes.' I dunno, 'pineapple'?" He's still grinning, but this is all wrong; he isn't supposed to feel affection, but maybe--maybe that's just going to have to be okay, if only for tonight. 

"Pineapple?" Cas starts to ask, but Dean laughs and cuts him off with a kiss, his chest aching again. 

He wants to say something soft, something fond; he wants to tell Cas he'll explain safe words later, that they won't need one tonight besides, but he doesn't want to promise a later if he isn't sure there'll be one.

But that's not a thought he wants to have as Cas backs up to his bed. Better to worry about the here and now. Better to worry about what Dean has now before it's gone again.

When he steps away this time, it's Cas who doesn't want to let him go, whose eyes are dark as they watch Dean lean down to unlace his shoes. As if prompted, Cas shrugs out of his coat and jacket, tossing them on a chair. He sits down and pulls off his shoes, letting them thud to the floor. The bed creaks when Dean sits on it, his arm around Cas, Cas's shoulder leaning into him, and the moment has gotten too slow; the adrenaline is fading, and Dean's heart is pounding loud now as he watches Cas take advantage of the lull to run his fingers along Dean's thigh. 

There's such gentleness in that, such sincerity, that Dean bats Cas's hand away and distracts him with a kiss again, leaning Cas back on the bed until he can slide on top of him, fit himself between Cas's legs. They fall back into a rhythm as if it isn't the first time, as if it's the easiest thing in the world to toss away everything that had been, that hadn't been, everything they ever kept to themselves, every look that they saw straight through but then there was an apocalypse, and another, and another. 

Dean is aware of Cas's inhale as he sneaks a hand up his shirt again, nails grazing the delicate skin of his stomach, dragging up his side and back down again. He's pleased when Cas's hand drifts up, palm flat against him, steady, steadying, as Dean dips down to mouth at Cas's throat, mixing teeth and tongue, chasing that sharp inhale again as he figures out what makes Cas tick.

Dean's hand travels, wanders over Cas's back, his hip, lower, onto his thigh, as Cas writhes beneath him, seemingly unable to process it all, but Dean isn't able to slow down very much either. When he grips Cas's hip, when he rolls their bodies together, Cas's gasp is sharp, less sure of itself, and Dean forces himself to still, his mouth over Cas's neck.

"Bad?" he asks, his thumb rubbing a small, soothing circle into his hip. After a moment, Cas shakes his head.

"Good," Cas says, his hand moving over Dean's arm. "Good, just..." He bites his lip, and Dean draws back, watching his face, but Cas is staring at the ceiling. 

"Just?" Dean prompts.

"Unexpected," Cas settles on, looking at Dean again. "I never thought..." He frowns, his hand stopping over his shoulder, and Dean feels himself start to lose his balance, start to fall.

"Not now, Cas." He quickly covers his mouth with a kiss, and he rolls his hips again, earning another sharp inhale, a tighter grip on his shoulder. A few more of those, a few bites at Cas's throat, stubble scraping over stubble, a hand in Cas's hair and one of Cas's in his, and Cas is pushing at Dean again.

"Stop, stop." He's breathless and so is Dean as he backs off, letting his forehead rest against Cas's shoulder for a moment. Cas's heartbeat thuds against Dean's own, and he listens to them together until it becomes too much, and he picks his head up.

"You okay?" 

Cas nods quickly, his eyes shut, his face flushed. "Yes. But I don't think you should do that anymore," he says on an exhale, shaky, and Dean can feel his whole body trembling now actually because something about him feels more alive than it had the day before. 

"Okay, no problem," he says, voice smooth and reassuring, as he drags his hand up Cas's side. "But are you sure?" Cas's eyes open, questioning. "'Cause it's also not a problem if you, you know. Want me to do that some more." 

"I..." Cas trails off.

"Ssh," Dean murmurs, lips against his throat, against his cheek, against his temple, before he realizes that he's breaking that tenderness rule again, even easier this time, and he rests his forehead against Cas's shoulder instead. His fingers curl in the sheets beside him. "S'okay. You're okay." 

They lay like that for a few moments. A car rolls by, the tires a gentle sound as they roll over the pavement, and the silence stretches out just long enough for Dean to feel something past the adrenaline, just long enough for the anxiety, for the panic, for the fear to creep in and remind him of what it is that he's doing, who he's doing it with, and just who's going to get hurt at the end of it all. 

Finally, mercifully, Cas says something. Somewhere above Dean, there's a quiet: "Okay."

"Okay?" Dean asks, searching his face, and Cas nods again, serious now.

"Pineapple." 

Dean's laugh is a surprise, almost painful, and he hates it; it doesn't belong in this moment that's just supposed to be about disposable intimacy, something that can happen here and there but only in the dark, something that should never be let out into the light.

"That's not really-- Never mind." Cas is so clearly pleased with himself for having made Dean laugh that he won't take that away from him.

Instead he pushes himself up, leaving the infectious heat of Cas's body, and starts undoing his shirt. Cas blinks rapidly before he catches up to what's happening, and he sits up, almost too abruptly, almost clunking their foreheads together. He shrugs out of his shirt, then looks to Dean, and there's a question there, yeah, but Dean can't help but feel like he's taking notes, just taking the time to do his research, learn how this goes, so that next time-- 

Dean shakes off the idea of next time and uses two fingers to push Cas back onto the bed. It only occurs to him just now that this, what they're doing, will mean that he's going to see Cas naked, and sure enough, here he is, trailing his fingers down Cas's chest. Dean licks over his lips, momentarily losing that bravado, the veneer that so far had been giving him the fuel he needs to keep doing this. His fingers reach Cas's waistband, and his eyes flick up to watch him as Cas's eyes flutter. Dean reaches his fly, thumbs over the button, watches Cas closely for his cue.

"Yeah?"

Cas licks his lips, quickly, then nods. He lifts his hips and Dean tugs, and his eyes flicker over Cas, and by the time he tears his eyes away, Cas is watching him darkly. His hands reach out for Dean's fly now, and Dean's stomach does a flip; he brushes Cas's hands away again, waving him off.

"I'll get it," he says numbly. "You take your shirt off. I'll be right back." He recovers with a smooth, charming grin that he isn't entirely sure Cas buys, but he stands up, suddenly cold in the room, as he steps out of his clothes, tugs his shirt over his head, drops them together in a pile on the floor, near his shoes, knowing full well what he's doing before he turns around to find Cas staring at him again with a hunger that he wears well. 

In one fluid motion, Dean is on top of him, kissing him again, and this time when their bodies fit together, there's a current that travels up Dean's body and back down again, pooling low, and he feels Cas feel it too because suddenly his mouth--up until now content to be led--becomes fiercer, hungrier, and his hand tugs at Dean's hair. 

He rolls his hips again because, well, Cas had requested it, but then he reaches between them, his hand hesitating a beat too long before he wraps his hand around his cock. He thumbs over the head, finds it sticky; he drags the stickiness over him, and Cas is making small noises under him, smaller than he's ever sounded, which fascinates Dean. For a full minute he lets himself watch Cas, the feelings flickering over his face, his lips parted and red, his breath ragged and heavy. 

That's enough of that. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrates again on his hand, on the pace, the grip, the thumb dragging over the sensitive parts that leave Cas gasping beneath him until his eyes open, then flutter shut again.

"I-- Oh --"

Cas shakes beneath him, his orgasm rolling through him, and Dean keeps his hand moving until Cas twitches, hisses. Normally, this is when Dean would cuddle, would start pawing slowly, would build back up to something. As it is, he switches his hand to himself and starts slowly, dipping his head into the crook of Cas's neck while he feels Cas catch his breath beneath him. 

It's a minute before Cas comes back to himself, realizes what Dean's doing, and protests.

"Dean--"

"Ssh," he murmurs, drowning out his protest with another hard, heavy kiss that weighs him down into the pillows, and after a moment, Cas's hand is in his hair again, tugging, nails dragging over the skin, and soon enough, Dean draws back from Cas's mouth sharply, his body tensing, Cas tensing beneath him. He feels eyes heavy on him as he ducks his head, giving into the feeling, the last uncomplicated one of the night. 

After, Cas's arms encircle him, pull him tight, and Dean allows it until he's not sure he can take it anymore. Clearing his throat, he pulls away. 

"Um, bathroom?" 

Moment broken, Cas points, and Dean slides out of bed. As he's washing his hands, he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and he pauses, looking at himself, at who he is right now, in this moment. Cas may have started this, but Dean's fucking pushed it all the way down the hill now, and all that's left to do is crash. Swallowing thickly, he snatches up a hand towel and mops himself up on the way back in and tosses the towel to Cas, who catches it and slowly copies Dean. 

The silence is heavy, Dean sitting on the edge of Cas's bed, Cas scooting himself up to sit, watching him. Cas reaches for him, his fingers brushing the skin of Dean's shoulder, and Dean swallows hard, clenching his jaw, his eyes shutting tight. He should shrug him off, push him away, before Cas gets the wrong idea about just what it is that Dean can give to him, but he finds that he can't move. Everything--the quiet of the room, the gentle sounds of night giving way to early morning outside, every instinct that's always at least a little bit on edge because hunters can't ever rest--they all still and zero in on Cas's fingertips, light and so warm on his shoulder.

"Stay," Cas says, barely audible over everything else rolling around in Dean's mind, and something in his chest seizes. 

_Yes_ , he knows he wants to say, but he swallows it down.

"I should-- I gotta get back." He stands, feigning ease as he starts reassembling his clothes. "Sam... He doesn't know where I am." Dean says it without realizing the implication, that he still hasn't told Sam a thing, and he shoots Cas a small look, then plunges ahead when he realizes he doesn't want to see his face. "And I don't know where he is, so. Gotta get back to the motel before we miss each other." 

Cas is silent behind him. A chill starts in his shoulder where Cas's hand had been, and it spreads, threatening to take him over. 

Dean squeezes his eyes before he turns around with a wide, easy smile, then finding he has nothing to say, he heads for the living room where he dropped his jacket.

As he reaches for the knob, Cas's hand falls on his shoulder again and turns Dean around--forces him, actually, when he meets resistance. Cas's eyes search his face for far too long, and Dean does his best not to look him in the eye. Finally, he leans in and grazes a kiss against his lips.

"Goodbye, Dean." He steps back, and Dean hesitates a moment longer before he decides that he doesn't belong here anymore. The early morning is cold when he steps out, the chill stealing through him as he makes his way to the car. 

Back at the motel, Sam's waiting for him in their room. 

"Where've you been?" Sam asks, and Dean tosses him a bag of donuts. Unfooled, Sam presses, "Did you talk to Cas?" 

"Yeah," Dean replies gruffly, stuffing things into his bag.

"...and?" 

Dean doesn't look up. "It's a start," he says, knowing full well that it isn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Turns out he was wrong about that. But then, he should've known, shouldn't he? It's not like he and Cas could ever escape one another. In the end, they always seem to find each other. Dean used to think sometimes, early on, that it was just their connection; when Cas remade him, he'd left his imprint on more than just Dean's shoulder, and somehow that's kept them in each other's orbits ever since. But over the years, and maybe especially, he's come to wonder if it's simpler than that. 

There's nothing simple about how he feels, though, when it's a few weeks later and he and Sam are finishing up an actual, honest-to-God hunt, the first one in months to crop up near them. It was like jumping into a pool, the water cold and bracing and welcoming on a hot summer's day, and Dean relished every minute of it. He's still thrumming with the adrenaline of it, with the relief and the question, again, if this is all he knows how to do, all he can ever be, as he drives them back home. They wind up close to where Cas is living now, and Sam suggests they drop by and see him. Dean can't come up with an excuse, try as he might, because as far as Sam knows, things are fine; and besides, he knew this would have to happen at some point, right? 

His eyes are fearful when they turn up at the bar, but Cas stares right through him. They sit at a table, Corey brings them drinks and a smile again, Dean feigns conversation the whole night long. Cas, beside him, does exactly the same thing. Back at the motel, Sam is trying to figure out why Dean is still acting weird if he and Cas made up like he said they did. Dean shrugs it all off, tells Sam he's imagining things, finally tells Sam to mind his own frigging business and to go to bed. He does finally, rolling his eyes, and it's a familiar gesture, a familiar conversation. He and Cas are on the outs again, and Sam's on the sidelines telling them to have a conversation and forgive each other. To Sam, it's nothing new, but that's because he doesn't know. How would he be handling all this if he did? 

There's an answering voice from deep inside Dean, one that's quietly whispering out _bullshit_. He knows Sammy, and if he stopped and let himself think about it, if he really let it all in, then he'd know exactly how Sam would handle it all. The trouble is, Dean can't let himself think about it. That isn't his life; it _can't_ be his life, and Dean tries to look past the voice that thought has in his mind, the one that reminds him of being a kid in a hallway with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

It's inevitable. He knows it as soon as Sam switches out the light, as soon as Sam crawls into bed. Hell, really, truly? He knew it as soon as Sam suggested they swing by, knew it before that even when Sam started looking at the map, after Dean asked him for directions, making a bargain with himself: if Sam says it, then the choice is made for him, isn't it? The Winchesters and destiny have always had a complicated relationship. Once he's sure Sam's asleep, Dean grabs the keys and slips out, and he finds himself again outside Cas's apartment. The lights are out this time, and Dean has a minute to wonder if Cas could be, has a minute to think viciously of waiters with neon nail polish, when the light turns on and Cas's shadow is there again. This time, Dean pushes the buzzer by the side entrance, and the door clicks open in response. 

Dean doesn't finish knocking before Cas opens the door, stands in the doorway, eyes searching Dean's face, the light dimmer than usual. 

Dean opens his mouth to say something, glances away, back again. Cas is watching him closely, eyes narrowed, head tilted, and it's a gut punch because that look sends Dean back over the years, dozens and hundreds of little moments, conversations, arguments, angry words, and desperate ones too. When he pushes the door open and grabs Cas up in a kiss, again, Cas hesitates, then relents. 

A few hours later, Dean is pulling his jacket on, mumbling something about Sam, about the motel, and Cas is nodding, not even looking, as the door shuts behind him again.

**~**

Dean spends the next two weeks alone. It isn't on purpose; it's just that everyone that might want to see him, that he might want to see, well--they're busy with their own things, and Dean... Well, it turns out, Dean doesn't have much in the way of _things_ these days.

It starts with a text. He has to ask Sam for Cas's number, and his brother is all too happy to give it to him. Dean sends one text, a picture of the mozzarella-stuffed cheeseburger he made for himself tonight, and something about how awesome it is. That's it. He can't put any more mental effort into weighing his words or not weighing his words because if he thinks about this, it becomes more of a thing than just sharing a picture. 

He promptly loses his phone for the rest of the night because caring about a text back? Also some girly crap that he doesn't have time for. He falls asleep with a beer in his hand, wakes up cold and smelling like stale hops, and he swears the whole time he starts yanking his sheets off the bed. His phone falls out; it died at some point in the night, and he plugs it in. By the time he's done dumping everything in the washing machine, his hands are slightly sweaty as he checks his phone. 

It's a very blurry picture of what he assumes Cas was eating that night, which looks like mediocre bar nachos. He's about to huff a laugh over Cas's poor photography skills, when he catches sight of a hand on the plate, neon nail polish, and he realizes that maybe Cas snapped a pic while the plate was still being set down in front of him.

He doesn't want to name whatever reaction it is that he finds himself having because it's _stupid_ , it's _nothing_. 

He ignores his phone until Sam calls a few days later and invites Dean over for dinner.

**~**

The thing is, Dean could go out to a bar too, you know. He could go out and grab a drink, flirt with a chick or two, go back to her place because the bunker is still like, hidden, even though it would be the ultimate seduction trip. _Welcome to my expansive underground lair full of cool, vaguely retro gadgets._ He really is Batman this time, but the cartoon one.

He doesn't, though. He doesn't go out to a bar and instead drinks at home, like healthy people do, just him and that expansive, quiet bunker, until he runs out of whiskey. And beer. And he's staring at the empty bottle, his knuckles leaning on the table, and his heart is pounding maybe just a little too hard and his thoughts going too fast for him to be able to process any of them. 

A day or two after Dean texted him, Cas texted him another picture, this time in focus, with just Cas's eyes and forehead in the frame. His finger pointed to something behind him: a blue jay high up in the tree. That was it. That was the whole thing, no message, no nothing. Just Cas showing Dean this bird that he thought was cool enough to share with Dean, who's seen a blue jay or two before so it's not like it was anything new to him. Dean hasn't responded, and Cas hasn't sent anything else either, but Dean keeps coming back to that picture, the utter _Cas-ness_ of it. 

Later he'll try to convince himself that he doesn't remember how he got to the Impala, but he's fully aware of himself as he snatches up his keys and peels out. 

By the time he gets there, it's late and the bar is close to closing down, but not so close that Dean couldn't step inside, see if Cas was there. But if Cas _is_ there, then he might want to sit down and share a drink with Dean, and a panic spreads through him at that thought. So he waits, fingers drumming on the outside of the car door along with the music as he waits. The last few patrons trail out, and he watches them as they climb into their cars and drive away, and still no Cas. He waits a while longer, until finally the lights start switching off inside and then the door opens.

He climbs out of the Impala, and the sound of the door shutting is what draws Cas's attention because before that he'd been looking over his shoulder. Cas stops, and Dean opens his mouth to say something, but then Corey is stepping out from behind Cas, frowning at him, following his gaze to Dean. And did he--did he just roll his eyes? 

"Hi," he tries, his throat suddenly drier, his hands in his pockets. His eyes flick between Cas and Corey.

"Hello," he says, and then he turns to Corey, who is still hovering at his side giving Dean the stink eye. Dean fidgets under the gaze because while he knows he deserves it, he hates that this guy feels like he has the right to give it to Dean. "Good night, Corey." 

Dismissed, he looks between the two of them again before giving Cas a squeeze on his arm and heading for his car, but not before letting Dean know again just exactly what he thinks of him.

The gravel crunches under Dean's feet as he catches up to Cas, who's already headed to his apartment, the sound of his keys jangling much louder than it should in the stillness.

"Where's Sam?" he asks, and Dean tries not to read too much into the question even though it makes him need to remind himself to breathe for a second. 

"Uh... It's just me," he says, and Cas looks over his shoulder at him. Dean feels caught, exposed, which is crazy because he and Cas are about to go upstairs and do things that are way more than just this. His heart is pounding again, thumping in quick time against his ribs, and it's an eternity before Cas turns back around and opens the door.

The silence hangs in the air as they walk up the stairs, the soft scuffs of their shoes the only sound to distract Dean from the ache in his chest. He has to wait for Cas to unlock the door, open it, step inside. There's the clack of his keys as they land in the bowl, and Dean shuts the door behind him and locks it, instinctually. By the time he turns back around, Cas is standing there, just staring at him, with something in his eyes that he has a hard time reading because the darkness is familiar; he's seen that before, he's _caused_ that before the last time and the time before that. But there's also a kind of heat to it that has nothing to do with what they're about to do. 

"Why are you here, Dean?" It's a test more than it is a question, and Cas's eyes squint, evaluating Dean as he fumbles for a response, struggles to put anything into words because even though they've been at this twice now, it's not like he can _talk_ about it, can't swagger and boast and act seductive, not outside of the moment, not without Cas breathless underneath him.

Dean's struggle seems to be answer enough for Cas because he closes the distance between them in two steps, and then the door is at Dean's back and Cas is kissing him hard, and Dean's caught off freaking guard because--what? The last two times, Cas had let Dean take the lead, but this time he's trying to keep up with Cas. Cas has him pinned, his hand on his arm and then it travels up to his neck, thumb brushing Dean's jaw, fingers in his hair, as Cas deepens the kiss. 

When Dean starts nudging at his shoulders, starts making muffled complaints, that's when Cas releases him, though he doesn't move much more than he has to, leaving them both breathing hard in the space between them. 

"Is this what you want, Dean?" Cas's voice is low and thick, and it reverberates through Dean's chest as he tries to process the question. It's another test, maybe even a dare, and Dean blinks, bewildered, his brain fumbling to catch up.

He's never been with a guy like _this_ before; he's always taken the lead, though he knows that's because the handful of guys he's been with knew that he needed that, were happy to give it to him. He'd thought Cas was the same, but now that Cas is in front of him, something sparking in his eyes and the faint feeling of electricity in the air, like lightning has just struck, Dean's reminded of just who and what Cas is. It's an odd contrast; he doesn't think of Cas as inhuman, but now, with Dean in his arms, it's hard not to remember how he was in the barn, his wings stretched out behind him, even though Cas seems small, hunched, somehow less than that right now. 

Dean barely has the chance to form the word yes before Cas kisses him again. When he pulls Dean off the door and starts leading him to the bedroom, Dean can only cling to his coat, hands fisting in the fabric. Cas's stride is sure, steady, even, and Dean has to concentrate a little bit to keep up, which is hard to do with Cas's hand in his hair now, nails faintly pressing into his scalp. 

In the bedroom, Dean gets a chance to breathe, if not think, as they start pawing at each other's clothes. Cas's mouth is on his jaw, his ear, his neck, and Dean's still trying to get his hands to work well enough to push Cas's coat off his shoulders. With an impatient sound, Cas steps back and tugs his coat off, then his jacket, then starts on his tie. Dean drags his eyes up from the nimble movements of Cas's fingers to find that Cas's eyes are on him. Dean swallows hard. 

"Well?" Cas prompts as he slides his tie off, and then nods at Dean. 

Oh, right. He starts pulling clothes off too, his brain slow to catch up to the moment, and frankly he doesn't want to hear what it has to say because--okay--because he's _enjoying_ this, and he doesn't want to know why he shouldn't like the way that Cas gets impatient when Dean's fingers aren't working right on his jeans, and he swoops in to kiss Dean again, his teeth on Dean's lips and making it that much harder to get his stupid pants over his hips.

Why shouldn't he like it when they're finally laying in bed, Cas on top of him, and Cas is doing something to Dean's neck that's making him grab at the sheet and wonder where the fuck he even learned that? Why shouldn't he like it when Cas begins exploring his body like he already knows every inch of it? (And, Dean wonders, doesn't he?)

There are a thousand reasons why, and Dean will think of them all painstakingly, one at a time, as he's driving home later. For now, though, all he can really do is hang on and try to keep up. And it's thrilling and oddly freeing in a way that he'd never even dared to consider.

When Cas's hand closes around his cock, though, Dean freezes. Up until now, he'd managed to dodge Cas's touch on his cock, somehow, and he was fully aware that that couldn't last forever. It was just going to get kind of conspicuously weird if he kept that up, but then he didn't let himself think about keeping this going in any kind of explicit way. Still, though, Dean's not entirely prepared for it, and Cas stops, looking up the length of Dean's body.

"Pineapple?" he asks, and it cracks something in Dean, starts him laughing and rubbing a hand over his face. It's hard to reconcile the Cas that said that not that long ago with this one now, but then again, this one is now gently touching Dean's thigh, soothing, calming. 

Dean swallows and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, pineapple." 

Whatever laughter was hanging around disappears now as Cas shifts back into gear; his hand tightens around his cock again, his thumb brushing against the head, as he's still kissing over Dean's hips. At some point, he stops doing that; Dean's mind has stopped marking movements and started floating along with the feelings instead. But when Dean cracks his eyes open, he sees Cas watching his hand on Dean, almost like he's studying, taking notes; and then he catches Dean watching him and grins in a way that makes Dean lose his breath.

Cas grins so rarely that Dean's able to recognize them when they come. There are the accidental ones, usually because Dean's surprised him in some way; there are the soft, fond ones when he's wrapped up in the moment. He's got his own version of a shit-eating grin that usually means he's saying something ridiculous and it's Dean's turn to roll his eyes. And, of course, there's the smile that Dean sees when he closes his eyes at night, the one where Cas is crying and saying things that are about to change the rest of Dean's life. This grin, though, is entirely new; it's hungry, and it's knowing, and it's predatory. And okay, maybe, yeah, a little bit proud of himself. 

"Tell me if the status of your pineapple changes." Dean is still trying to unpack every way that sentence is one of the most ridiculous things he's ever heard in his life when Cas ducks his head and takes Dean's cock into his mouth.

Dean's pineapple is just fine, thanks, as his head falls back against the bed, and he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to go back to just going along for the ride. It's not that hard, necessarily, except that he has to be aware of the fact that Cas is going down on him, and even when he started all this, he never once let himself imagine how this might feel. 

It feels as someone would expect if they just had the basics explained to them: Cas is inexperienced with this, but damn if he isn't trying his enthusiastic best. Dean's mind is mercifully blank now, and when his hand finds Cas's hair, it's all on its own accord. Then there's a hand involved, and an impressive amount of synchronization, and soon enough experience doesn't matter that much because Dean is muttering a warning.

"Cas -- Cas, Cas, _Cas_ ," he manages, starting slow and increasing in urgency, and then he's tensing, his hand tugging at Cas's hair, and on his thigh is Cas's hand, gently squeezing back.

He's still trying to catch his breath when Cas is at his side again, doing that thing again to Dean's neck, but gentler now, and his hand is a steady, reassuring weight against Dean's chest that eventually Dean reaches up to grab, his fingers encircling his wrist. Cas kisses him then, and Dean tries not to think about the salty taste on his lips. Things are still gentle for a moment, but then Cas is pulling Dean's hand down to his cock, and he breaks the kiss with another smile, one that Dean might classify as "wicked."

For not being much of an expressive talker, Cas is definitely a groaner with a lack of inhibition that Dean figures must come with the territory of living for centuries as an angel. His face is buried in Dean's neck when his orgasm hits, and Dean feels his hand grip his shoulder all the way through to his core.

After, Cas is still against him, and Dean listens to him catch his breath, and then almost without thinking-- _almost_ \--he turns his head and his lips brush Cas's forehead, gently, lightly, barely there. He feels Cas inhale beside him, and then he exhales slowly, his hand sliding down Dean's arm until he's mostly just got his arm over Dean's chest. 

And Dean thinks well, he'll just give Cas another minute or two. Then he'll--drive home? A motel? He realizes just then that he hadn't thought that far ahead, but he doesn't have much time to think about it because his body is getting heavier, and Cas's breath is soothing against his skin.

When he opens his eyes again, it's because he's cold everywhere that Cas isn't. He doesn't know what time it is other than his sense that it's _later_ , that he's fallen asleep curled up here with Cas against him, breathing rhythmically beside him, head still on his shoulder. There's a burst of panic then, but Cas must sense it because he picks his head up, blinking slowly, and Dean is frozen again under his gaze, caught, again.

"Are you okay?" Cas asks, stifling a yawn. It's a ridiculous question, but Dean knows that he doesn't want to ask what he's really asking: _Will you stay?_ Dean squirms, but his eyes flick to the window. It's late. He didn't have a plan B. He's comfortable, and it's Cas-- He quickly cuts his thoughts off.

"Cold," he manages after a moment, with difficulty, and seemingly he and Cas start moving at once, adjusting blankets, readjusting themselves. The blanket is instant relief, and when Dean lays back down, he watches Cas be unsure of himself for the first time all evening. It's a soft look that eases something that had tensed in Dean. 

"I can leave, if you want." He isn't looking at Dean directly but instead at some spot on his chest, and Dean notices, he is being careful not to touch him. 

This moment is fragile, and Dean's afraid of it, afraid of what he'll do with it. He works his mouth and then forces words out this time.

"You gonna watch over me?" Dean tries to say lightly, but doesn't quite achieve. Cas's smile is a gentle thing, with something sad touching the corners, something far away and hidden, almost mournful. 

"Only if you want me to." 

There's a moment when the only sound is their breath and a cricket outside somewhere, and then Dean nudges at Cas.

"Roll over." He's working hard to keep from thinking about any of this as he watches Cas move, hears the sheets rustle. Sometimes you stay the night, right? Sometimes there's breakfast? Or morning sex? That's an excuse, right, for Dean to put an arm around Cas and lay down behind him? He's tired; he can't drive like this, not all the way home, and why pay for a motel when he has Cas's bed? 

He's on rationale #17 by the time he falls asleep again, careful to keep his head on his own pillow and not tucked into Cas's neck like he almost did on instinct.

**~**

In the morning, when Dean wakes up, he's alone and unsure of how to feel about it. His hand splays out over the spot on the bed where he remembers Cas from the night before, how small he'd looked just before Dean fell asleep and how different that was from how he looked earlier in the evening when he--

It all comes back in a rush, everything they did, everything that Dean let happen -- that he'd liked, that he'd really, _really_ liked, and which was previously high up on his list of things that weren't acceptable. Maybe, he decides, he's grateful Cas wasn't here for him to wake up. He pulls his clothes on, smelling coffee, and he tries to sort through what it is that he should do here, what he should say. The question of what he _wants_ to say only flickers briefly before he puts it aside automatically. This part of him has never been about that.

He steps out into the living room to find Cas sitting at the couch, watching TV, and two coffee mugs on the table in front of him. He's only wearing his shirt and pants, no jacket, no tie, no coat, and Dean wonders if he'll ever get used to seeing Cas dressed down. 

"Good morning." There's a smile chasing around the corners of his mouth for about ten seconds, just long enough for Cas to realize that Dean doesn't know if he should smile back or not. 

Dean clears his throat, rubs a hand on the back of his neck, wavers, and then sits down next to Cas, on the edge of the seat, leaning forward. He picks up the coffee cup, feels the heat through the ceramic, Cas's eyes on him the whole time; he takes a sip, his own eyes glued to the TV.

"Thanks, Cas," he says finally, his heart thrumming, and finally, he can't resist; he steals a glance over and is caught in the weight of Cas's gaze. And there's a second, one flash of a second where Dean thinks that it would be nice to stay in this moment, to lean in, to just be here and be... He hesitates before his mind settles on the h word. Is he happy? Is this what it is to be happy?

He's smiling a little too by the time he finally turns away, once Cas's eyes soften again into the warm thing they were when Dean first stepped out. 

"If you like," Cas says after a moment, "we could go down to the bar soon. They don't officially open for a while, but the chef is usually there by now. I think Dan is on today. He'd make us something to eat." 

There's such a gentleness in Cas's voice, and Dean can't even remember anymore when that started happening. Was it the mental hospital, after Sam and Cas were broken? Or was it sometime before that when Cas started to learn how humans work, when he started to _feel_ for humanity, for everyone, for _Dean?_

His chest tightens, and Dean takes a sip of coffee to try to swallow down what feels like rising panic. Breakfast downstairs with Dan the Chef means breakfast downstairs with Cas sitting across from him, looking at him like that, and maybe Dean wants to look back at him like that, and if there's ever going to be a moment where he's ready for that... well. That's a big if.

"No, I gotta..." He hates himself even as he starts to say it. "I should really... get back." To what? To an empty bunker? To a world that's mostly moved on without him? 

"Dean," Cas starts, and he reaches out to touch Dean, and Dean tries to sit through it, but in the end he jumps up and takes another pull of coffee.

"Thanks for the coffee, Cas," he starts to say, starts to head for the door, but Cas is moving behind him.

" _Dean_." It's his serious voice, all gentleness gone. Dean doesn't really want to turn around, not with the sickness that's curling around his stomach now, but he does, bracing himself for whatever it is that he deserves. "Can we _talk_? I--" He breaks off, shaking his head, frustrated, sad. "I miss you." 

Dean makes a noise there, involuntarily, and turns around before he says something like how he misses Cas too, but--again--Cas is the one who got them into this boat. Right?

"You didn't want to talk last night." Dean can barely get out his smug response before Cas is stepping toward him, some of that same fire from last night returning.

"No, _you_ didn't want to talk. I knew as much as soon as I saw you. This has all been nice, Dean--"

" _Nice_?" Dean cuts back, and Cas gives him a hard look.

"I don't care about sex. I don't need it. It's, yes, it's nice, but that's because it's with _you_." There's a soft, pleading tone that's achingly familiar, but then it's gone again, Cas drawing back in on himself. "It's definitely less nice when you leave right after." 

Dean's mouth is dry as he tries to work up a response to that, but he knows he's in the wrong here, and he wishes he could throw something back at Cas. Instead, he can only stand there, wishing he could be less of a coward instead. 

Cas sighs heavily, eyes settling on Dean. "I love you, Dean," he says, and through the anger, Dean can hear all the same notes that were there that night. "I will always love you. But right now, I think I'd like you to leave." 

Dean's footsteps are hollow in the hallway, the click of Cas's door drowning out every other sound.

**~**

Weeks go by with no word from Cas, and Dean doesn't send any of his own, either. What would he say? What _could_ he say? Well, aside from the obvious, aside from the utterly unthinkable. As far away as he is from that kid in the hallway, he can still feel the ghost of his father's hand on his shoulder, no matter how much he wishes he didn't, no matter how much he thinks he's moved on. How he _should_ have moved on by now.

Cas had said Dean was loving and selfless, and Dean thinks sometimes those things are at odds with one another because Dean can be selfless, Dean can love, but it's hard to do both at the same time. Every morning that Dean wakes up to an emptiness that he calls the bunker, and he finds his arm stretched out over the empty half of the bed, cold and exposed, he thinks of Cas tucked up against him. He thinks of Cas underneath him, on top of him, sure, but mostly he thinks of Cas in the morning, half dressed and comfortable, with coffee waiting for Dean and a smile, and a hope, and the promise of more mornings just like that.

Every time that Sam and Eileen have him over, and he watches them move in and out of each other's space, hands on shoulders and shared, secret smiles, Dean is at once a teenager, sitting on a bed watching a friendship try to become something else but failing, and an adult, a grown man, who's seen enough pain and endings of the world to last a second or third lifetime, and he has to wonder: what was it all for? Was it just so that Dean could sit here, hollow and empty, and watch Sam have the life he's always wanted? Was that all that Dean ever wanted for himself, or was that what his dad wanted for him?

Each night that Dean goes to bed, when he stands in the doorway of his bedroom and tries to imagine what Cas would be doing right now, how he'd be navigating Dean's space, how he'd fit himself into Dean's life if he was allowed this far, the echo of his father's voice gets quieter and quieter, and Dean finds himself taking his dad's words and twisting them. Is providing for Sam really all Dean was good for? Is that all Dean was worth? Is there nothing left for him?

It's late at night when he finds himself listening to the ringing of a phone until it's Garth's voice on the other end.

"Dean? Everything okay?" he asks, because why would Dean be calling if it wasn't for a case? Because why would Dean give himself space and room to just... talk to someone?

"Yeah," he says stiffly, and then he forces a smile on his face, hoping it makes its way into his voice. "Sure. Just--checking in on everyone. You know, after everything." 

There's a pause, during which he hears Garth start some kind of baby's toy, the music faint in the background, and then there's the click of a door.

"Uh huh." 

Dean closes his eyes to the disbelief in Garth's voice and tries to remember what it was that made him pick up the phone. 

"So, uh, everything okay with you? Any--uh. Any things we should be on the lookout for? We've been scanning for signs of any new cases, but things seem pretty quiet over here. What's the news from the monster circuit?" He almost achieves a lightness, and he hears Garth inhale on the other end.

"Yeah, Dean, everything's fine. I heard of a couple problems out down by Florida, but well... It was Florida. Someone took care of it." 

Dean nods, licks his lips quickly, and then asks, "And your normal? How's that?" 

"Oh, the babies are doing good. Cas just had an ear infection, but he's getting better." He pauses. "And you, Dean? Have you found your normal?" 

Dean drags in a breath, his eyes shut tight. "You know that's not for me, man." He tries to make it into a joke. 

"And you know that's bull," Garth says back immediately, but Dean can picture him: small, a smile on his face, his hands in his pockets, an open kind of acceptance of life written all over him. 

Dean closes his eyes tightly, and he knows why he called Garth, a monster trying to make his way through the world, trying to make it right, trying to chase happiness and defy every rule that says that Dean should put him in the ground, defying his father's code. He sees Benny then, feels the warm, easy companionship that had felt secret and right and pure and that ultimately, Dean couldn't keep. 

"I don't know if it's... right for me," he says finally, a truer statement than what he'd said last, and he hears Garth suck in his breath through his teeth. 

"It's hard to hang it all up," Garth says, freely offering sympathy. "But... is that it, Dean? Is that why you're calling me? And not Sam?" Garth pauses, and adds, "Or Cas?" 

At Dean's inhale, Garth continues.

"I heard you got him back, but Sam said you two had a big fight, and Cas is still out there on his own. Listen, Dean. I don't pretend to know everything, alright? But I know that you were right when you said that I wouldn't forgive myself if I gave up on my weird little happiness." 

Dean had said those words, years ago-- _who cares where happiness comes from?_ \--because he knew it was the right thing to say then, if only because Dean himself knew the pain that Garth was feeling, knew exactly how to fix it, because he'd wished someone would fix it for him. 

"I don't know if this is what you need to hear, but you shouldn't give up on this, either. Whatever it is. You and Cas are family. It isn't right that you're both on your own." 

Is that what he'd needed to hear? Garth still technically doesn't have a clue as to what it is that's at the heart of the problem, and Dean isn't going to open up _that_ much, but Dean thinks of Garth and Bess dancing in the window, and he remembers a kind of heartbrokenness that had felt like it could never go away.

"Yeah, thanks," he says finally, and he practically hears Garth smile on the other end.

"Imagine I'm hugging you now." 

He manages to get a laugh out of Dean.

**~**

It's Eileen's birthday and Sam wants to celebrate, but it has to be a secret, which is why he's at the bunker today, the first time in a while. Dean offered to cook, but Sam insisted on setting the menu. It seems like more food than the three of them need, but Dean doesn't think too hard about it, just putters around in the kitchen and listens to Sam behind him, getting dishes and silverware and glasses, slowly setting the table while Dean gets the food ready. It's the most action the bunker's seen in a while.

Dean's been sitting with that phone call with Garth for a couple days, wanting to tell himself it was a 2am mistake, but that voice is getting quieter. Seeing Sam in the bunker again, Dean tries to picture Cas here, tries to imagine the three of them, a family again, and how much that would or wouldn't fit. Dean can picture clearly how his dad would react, but his dad isn't here, and Sam is not their father. 

Once the cake's in the oven, Dean steps out to see what all Sam's been up to, and that's when he spots the table with four plates, four glasses, four sets of silverware. Sam is adjusting some stupidly cheerful banner, and so misses Dean staring at that fourth spot for a beat too long.

"Who's this one for?" he asks, and Sam glances over his shoulder, then gives Dean his patented _my brother is an idiot and we should pity him_ look.

"Cas," he says simply and starts to turn around when he catches Dean's face. "...why? I thought you two made up," he starts, accusing, but Dean can only start to fumble some kind of an excuse when the bunker door opens.

"Hello," Cas calls, making his way toward them, and Sam gives Dean one last uncertain look before he goes to give Cas a hug.

"Hey, man. Glad you could make it." 

Cas looks the same, mostly, except maybe he's tired, and Dean tries to imagine Cas driving here, alone; he tries to imagine Cas deciding to come, accepting Sam's invitation, knowing what he'd be walking into, knowing how Sam wouldn't have a single clue. Dean is frozen again, like he was back at the bar, like he was back when Cas changed everything, but he feels like he's teetering on the edge of a precipice, and if he moves, then he makes a decision.

"Thank you for inviting me," Cas says with a smile, which fades when he turns to nod at Dean. "Hello, Dean." He doesn't move to hug him, and neither does Dean, though something in him is itching to do it.

Sam looks between them, then rolls his eyes and abandons them for the kitchen, pulling his phone out as he goes. Dean can hear him talking to Eileen as he goes down the hall, and then it's just him and Cas, awkward, silent, and Dean doesn't know what to do with this moment, or what he'd like to do with it. The truth is, seeing Cas in the bunker again feels _right_ , and finally, finally those months--the _years_ of feeling wrong seem so small now.. 

"Cas," Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off.

"I believe I left a few things in my room," he says, and then he stalks off, coat swaying behind him. 

Dean sighs, watching after him, glancing back at the kitchen, wrestling with the remnants of a dark voice that's telling him not to go after Cas and the image of Cas curled up in bed next to him, of Cas half dressed on the couch in the morning. 

"Fuck it," he mutters finally and follows after him.

He is in his room, but it's empty because Cas didn't leave anything behind; well, other than Dean. He's sitting on his bed with his hands in front of him, and he's maybe surprised, maybe annoyed when Dean steps into the doorway. Dean thinks again that Cas looks tired in a way that doesn't seem quite right; there are bags under his eyes and something wan in his face, and Dean blames himself. 

"Are you sure you want to be here?" Cas starts, a note of bitterness in his voice that Dean hates. "Sam is just down the hall. He could walk down at any moment." 

Dean flinches at the venom in his words and how he does look over his shoulder, but then he steps further into the room, pushing the door behind him until it's open just a crack. 

"I want to talk." Dean wasn't sure he was going to say it before it bubbled out of him, but now that it has, he stands by it; he does want to talk, he misses Cas, and he doesn't think that makes him gay or not gay or anything else. 

Mollified, Cas looks Dean over and then nods. "Alright." 

Dean takes another hesitant step forward, and even though he knows this conversation needs to happen, he hadn't exactly been ready for it; he reaches for the right way to phrase what it is that he needs to express, but the tangle of emotions that takes the shape of Cas in his mind is too difficult to pick through.

"What I did was wrong," he starts, eyes on the floor, but he turns them up at Cas to judge his reaction. "I was... freaked out, and I was..." 

"An asshole," Cas supplies, and Dean's gaze turns sharp. He shrugs one shoulder. "Corey's been helping me work through my feelings about my manipulative ex." 

It's the wrong thing to say, but Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, has he?" he asks, bitter, and he rubs his eyes.

"Yes, he has." Cas is unapologetic, and Dean doesn't know how to read that, knows he deserves every bit of it, wonders if he should just leave now, should just turn around because whatever this could've been--it can't be anymore. At least, not if he doesn't try. 

"Listen, I'm... I'm sorry," Dean says, knowing it's not enough. "I'm sorry about--about the last few months, I'm sorry for icing you out, I'm sorry for--" He breaks off sharply. This is the root of it, isn't it? "I'm sorry I didn't say anything back when you..." Cas's gaze is as steady as ever, and Dean can't stand it anymore.

"Fuck." He squeezes his eyes, but when he opens them, there Cas is, head tilted, eyes squinted. "I was scared." Cas opens his mouth but Dean holds out his hand. "I know, that's... lame. It's..." 

Cas lets him twist a moment more before he starts, "Dean, I--"

Sam clears his throat loudly behind them, and Dean turns around to find Sam in the hall, a hand on the door, open now a bit wider than Dean had left it. He looks between Dean and Cas with a painful uncertainty that's half between feeling bad for interrupting and half wishing he hadn't heard anything at all.

"Um, Eileen's on her way," he says, glances between them again, falters, apology all over his face. 

Dean's blood runs ice cold as he clears his throat and brushes past his brother as quickly as he can. He's got a fake smile ready for when Eileen gets there, and he manages to make it through dinner with a few easy laughs and a carefully crafted routine where he just keeps asking questions to keep her and Sam talking, like he's conducting an interview, because that at least he can do comfortably on autopilot. Cas is as quiet and weird as ever, but Dean guesses that's a comfortable autopilot for him too, at least until Cas starts rambling halfway through the cake about the poetic beauty of ant colonies, and he nearly knocks his glass off the table. 

Sam and Dean exchange a look, and then they're wordlessly grabbing up plates on an excuse to slip into the kitchen.

"Cas is--" Sam starts.

"Drunk, yeah," Dean finishes, frowning as he looks out into the table. Eileen, for her part, is watching Cas talk about the epic strength of an ant carrying a leaf back home with an amused attention that Dean wouldn't have patience for, that's for sure.

"Well..." Sam trails off, eyeing Dean uncertainly. "Do you know why? Is he becoming human again?" 

That really is a question that Dean should know the answer to, and the fact that Sam expects him to know it has Dean fidgeting. His mind turns slowly as he thinks back. Hadn't he shown up one time, and the lights in Cas's place were off, like he'd been asleep? And when he woke up that one time with Cas curled against him, just how rhythmically had he been breathing? Dean remembers it now, the stifled yawn that he'd skipped over, too busy chasing his thoughts in his mind. And Dan the Chef--Cas knew his schedule, knew when he'd be willing to cook them a meal. He watches as Eileen smoothly swaps out Cas's beer for Dean's empty one when Cas isn't looking and plays innocent when Cas seems perplexed, and Dean wonders just how much he's missed. 

"I don't know," he says finally, a sickness in his gut. Sam is and always will be Dean's first priority. But Sam's fine, and Dean is the one who pulled Cas out of the Empty. If he's broken, if Dean left some part of him behind-- Well, that's his responsibility too, feelings or no feelings.

"Alright, well." Sam makes an odd sound in his throat, looks from Dean to Cas and back again. "Eileen and I can stay, if you want help..." 

Dean can feel himself start to flush, as much as he hates _that_ , because he knows that Sam overheard something; how much, he doesn't know, and it's not like he and Cas were getting too explicit, but definitely enough for Sam to want to roll his third wheel self on out of here with his girl and leave Dean to his weird, gay mess. 

As always, Sam comes first, so Dean hesitates, then waves his hand at Sam.

"No, you two go on home. I got this." 

Sam and Eileen make their exit as Cas heaps another happy anniversary of her birth and a merry rest of her mortal existence onto her before they manage to flee up the steps. Cas is slumped over on the table by then, head down, and Dean scrubs his hand over his face. This really isn't how he envisioned his next significant encounter with Cas, but here he is, looping Cas's arm around his neck and helping him up out of his chair.

"Alright, come on, big guy," he says, Cas's weight pulling on him as Dean leads him down the hall. 

"Did you know you have beautiful pores?" Cas murmurs, and Dean steals a glance at him.

"Sure," he starts, but Cas is already moving on.

"Although you could stand to improve your skincare routine. Corey has a detailed, 8-step regimen. Did you know that snail mucin can reduce wrinkles? Of course, the snails have known for centuries now." 

"Okay, sure." He holds Cas propped up with one arm while he pulls the blankets down on his bed, and then he sits him down and almost leaves him there, but then he thinks better of it and stoops to untie his shoes. 

"They're very vain, snails. Spend all day looking at their reflection in their slime trails. But then, what else do they have to do?" 

Dean murmurs something back at Cas as he pulls first one coat off his shoulders, then the other, and then he slides Cas's tie off while he's still babbling about snails. He helps Cas lay down and then turns off the lamp. 

"There we go. Night-night time," he says, pulling the blanket up over him. Cas catches his wrist, his grip tight at first, but loosening, and then Cas's hand covers his, holding him against his chest.

"You never stay," Cas murmurs, frowning deeply, but then Dean's pretty sure he's almost immediately out before Dean has to come up with any kind of response to that. He lingers, telling himself it's because he wants to make sure Cas is really asleep before he pulls his hand away and disturbs him. Cas's expression eventually softens, his breath evening out, his chest rising and falling under the weight of their hands together. 

Dean's numb by the time he makes it to the hallway, except for his hand, still warm from Cas's touch.

**~**

It isn't a conscious decision, not in so many words, and Dean could blame his restless sleep just as easily, but he's awake and in the kitchen, making breakfast already, as slowly as possible, waiting for the sound of Cas's bedroom door. The first thing he did that morning was slip into Cas's room and leave him a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. Cas was twisted in the sheets, frowning in his sleep, and Dean stood for a long moment thinking about smoothing his hair back from his forehead. He left the room, instead, telling himself he didn't want to wake Cas up.

He flips the switch on the coffee pot, but the coffee's already made; he just wants to warm it up again while he wants for Cas to shuffle out, as he assumes he will. Instead, he hears the bathroom door, hears the sound of the water, and Dean drags out the cooking as long as he can before he just leaves everything else on the oven to stay warm.

When Cas finally appears, he's haphazardly dressed; his tie hangs loose, his shirt is untucked, his hair is wet and plastered to his forehead, sticking up at odd angles. He's carrying the trench coat, and he sets it on the table as he slides into the seat. He avoids Dean's eyes, even as Dean sets coffee in front of him, and then a plate of food. Dean doesn't have the upper hand here, but he'd like to think he does because while he's been full of shit for the past few months, at least it was transparent. Cas has been hiding something, though, and secrets have never sat right with Dean.

He leans on the table, staring Cas down as he wordlessly pulls the coffee mug over and takes a drink. 

"Well?" Dean gives up on waiting for Cas to say something. Cas still doesn't look up and instead picks up his fork.

"Well, what?" he asks, half a grumble, half a warning, as he starts to eat.

There it is again, familiar and easy; anger coils in Dean, telling him to lash out, reminding him of how easy it would be to push Cas away, but he takes a breath, counts down from ten, remembers being told that he isn't his father's blunt instrument. He's been doing a bad job of remembering that here lately, and, he supposes, Cas looking hungover and dejected at his breakfast table is his reward. 

"You wanna clue me in here?" His voice is tight, brimming with restraint, watching Cas's every move as he sighs and hesitates, the fork hovering over the plate, before he continues eating.

"Not particularly." He picks up his coffee cup and takes a long drink while Dean is stuck trying to figure out how to bridge this gap that he built in the first place. Dean counts to twenty this time, rubs his hand over his face, breathes in through his nose and exhales through his mouth, and he tries again. 

"I deserve this," he starts, and he splays his hand out on the table between them. Cas looks at his hand first, but that's as far as he gets. "You were right; I've been an asshole. I said I was sorry, and I meant it." He tries to duck his head to catch Cas's eye, but he's not budging, and Dean gives up with a small sound of frustration. "Come on, man. Will you tell me what's going on?" 

Cas is still for a long moment, and when he looks up at Dean, Dean can see the tiredness around his eyes, the lines that seem deeper, the bags that seem darker. He fixes Dean with a stare that makes him feel thoroughly transparent, like Cas can still see every single one of his thoughts.

"Why?" he asks, his voice a tired, weary challenge. There's electricity in the air again, the taste of lightning on Dean's tongue, even though there's nothing about the slump of Cas's shoulders that reminds Dean of a summer storm.

"...what?" Dean's confused by the question, but he's also, maybe, afraid of it. 

" _Why?_ " Cas repeats, his gaze even harder now, another snap of electricity in the air. "If I told you I was losing my grace, what would you do? Move me in here to 'take care of me', and then ignore me except for when you take me to your bed?" Cas lifts an eyebrow, challenging. "Or would you kick me out again, and then come by when it was convenient for you?"

Cas is, apparently, not as much of an angel as he had been, but he can still reach into Dean's head and pull out his darkest thoughts. He wishes he could tell Cas he was wrong, but the thing is: he isn't sure. Garth had bolstered him, but even if Cas moved in today, what would Dean do? He likes to think he'd wrap a blanket around Cas's shoulders, that he'd bring him soup and hold him until he didn't feel the ache of his missing grace--but does Dean even believe he has that in him?

"Cas..." 

"No, Dean." Cas is forceful, his eyes flashing. He shoves his chair back and stands, and human he may be sort of, a little bit be, Dean feels small standing across from him. "I meant it when I said I was happy just saying it. I didn't need more than that." He stops, pursing his lips, evaluating his next few words. "I know you've slept with men." 

Cas hasn't moved an inch other than to stand up, but Dean feels as if he's been struck anyway; he feels himself straighten up, his eyes widen, his breath stick in his chest. But _of course_ Cas knew. Of course; Cas has seen every secret dark part of him, so why _wouldn't_ he know?

"I also knew you hated yourself for it, and even though it may have been fulfilling on some level, it made you unhappy. I knew you could never live that way, not openly. That wasn't what I knew I couldn't have." He pauses, but Dean is struck wordless again, powerless in the wake of Cas filling him in on all the things that Dean'd been willfully ignoring for years. 

"I told you, _months ago_ , that I didn't want anything to change. I could've been happy living here with you just as we were. I _was_ happy. But _you_ changed things, Dean." He picks up his coat from the table and gives Dean one last, sad look. "I want more than that now. I want more than what we've been over the past few months."

He pauses, and Dean's relatively certain he's waiting for Dean to say something, to stop him from disappearing out of his life again, but his throat is dry, and finally, Cas shakes his head.

"Goodbye, Dean." 

It isn't until he hears the bunker door slam shut that he finds something to say, but his _wait_ dies in his throat.

**~**

Dean really doesn't have that much time before Sam comes over to ask about Cas, but it feels like it. It's definitely enough time to sit down heavily, to lean his head in his hands, to think about watching Cas walk out of here again, and to know exactly whose fault it is and why it never needed to happen in the first place.

Somewhere between Cas telling Dean that he wasn't driven by anger and hate, and Dean needing to confront a hate that'd been instilled in him early on, ground into the very fiber of his being, Dean had forgotten about the love part. The part where Cas told Dean that he was selflessly loving, the part where Cas told Dean that he loved him; the part where Dean knows his brother loves him and not much is going to change that, not after all the shit they've been through and every actually reprehensible thing Dean's ever done. 

There's a realization threatening to fight its way to the surface, and it feels like panic; it's hard to breathe as he sits at his kitchen table, hands braced on the table, Cas's plate still in front of him. If Dean closed his eyes and tried, he might see the specter of his father darkening some corner here, and for a second, that makes him feel young. It makes him feel trapped. But when he takes a deep breath, he remembers who and what he is, which is a grown ass man who buried his father long ago, and one who's saved the world, and one who maybe, maybe deserves a goddamn break. 

Maybe.

That's still a big pill for him to swallow, this question of what Dean actually deserves, when he hears Sam approaching.

"Cas? Dean?" 

Dean hitches a breath and gets up quickly, turning around from the table and facing the stove, if only to put some distance between himself and Sam, long enough to try to get a handle on whatever his face might or might not be doing.

"In here," he calls, and Sam steps into the kitchen.

"Where's Cas?" he asks immediately, and Dean drops his head momentarily.

"He, um. He left." Dean picks up the pan he used to cook and takes it over to the stove; he turns the water on just a bit too hot and lets it burn into his skin as he listens for Sam's impatient, frustrated sigh behind him.

"Again? Dean." Sam's judgment rolls in waves, and Dean lets his shaky breath be masked by the sound of the faucet. "He's not okay. You just let him leave?" 

"It's complicated, Sam," he barks, scrubbing vigorously at the pan, harder than is really necessary.

"Is it?" His brother's voice is an odd mix of both desperation and exasperation, and he dares to glance over his shoulder to see Sam standing there, a wide-open kind of pain on his face that makes Dean think of Sam hugging Cas in the bar a few months back. Of Sam tirelessly helping him find the right spell to locate Cas in the Empty, so Jack could bring them both back. Sam may have packed his bags and left as soon as they got Cas back, but then, he'd probably expected Cas to _stay_ here. "Why don't you tell me about it, Dean?"

Slowly, slowly, Dean turns the faucet off and braces himself against the sink, his eyes closed. 

"What did you hear?" is all he says, and he can see Sam shrug in his mind's eye without even needing to turn around.

"I don't know," Sam says, honesty in his voice that eases some tension in Dean's shoulders, lets him take an easier breath at least. "Dean, is this about Cas... liking guys?" 

Dean blinks, his brain working hard to catch up, trying to remember what it was exactly that he and Cas had said to each other that Sam may have overheard.

"What?" 

Sam makes an impatient sound. "I heard you apologize to him, and you said you were scared. Dean--did Cas tell you... something? And it freaked you out?" 

Sam is so hilariously close to the mark that Dean breathes a soft, slightly hysterical laugh that has Sam's eyes narrowing behind him.

"If you shut Cas out because he--well, I don't know what he told you, but if _that's_ why, then you're a real asshole, Dean." 

Dean is still dealing with the hysterics that are threatening to take him over, leaning hard against the sink, his head hanging down, as his brother steps further into the room. 

"Talk to me, please, Dean. You tore through this place trying to find a way to get Cas back; you nearly killed yourself--a couple of times--and then as soon as he shows up, you two can barely be in a room together. What happened? What were you scared of?" 

It's right about now that Dean realizes what he should've known, what he maybe knew in the back of his mind, as soon as he finished his conversation with Garth. He couldn't give Cas an answer this morning because as much as this should be about him and Cas and only him and Cas, Dean's never really imagined his life without Sam in it. 

"I like guys," he blurts, knuckles turning white against the edge of the sink, and he feels Sam stop short behind him.

"...what?" There's surprise in Sam's voice, and Dean forces himself to turn around to examine it head-on instead of trying to analyze it blindly. There's surprise in Sam's face, yes, but hurt too, and something Dean recognizes as a desperation to make something right.

"I like guys," he says again, quieter this time, and he drops his eyes as Sam blinks in front of him, his mouth opening and closing again. 

"Oh, I..." He trails off, gives his head a shake, frowns, then tries again. "For how long?" 

"I dunno, Sammy. What kind of question is that?" Dean, irritated, rolls his eyes and pushes away from the sink, pacing over to the counter, an explosion of nervous energy and adrenaline rushing through him, because a part of him knows what that question is. It's Sam moving on, it's Sam accepting, it's Sam just wondering how long he hasn't known his brother like he thought he did, and, because Dean never once imagined this moment would come, Dean doesn't know what to do with that feeling.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" he says, voice gentle, and Dean feels himself cracking under the obvious simplicity of that question, of the answer that Sam should know.

"I don't know." He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere not on Sam's face. "At first, it was... Dad," he forces himself to say, and he sees Sam shift his weight on his feet. "But then it just... didn't seem to matter anymore anyway." 

"Didn't matter? Dean." Sam shakes his head, but then there's a silence that Dean's grateful for, at least until he hears Sam's sharp inhale. "Is _that_ what this is about?" 

"Is what about?" Dean asks, bracing himself for whatever connection Sam's made, bracing himself for how he's going to have to affirm, or correct, and bracing himself for what comes after that.

"Cas. You and Cas. Do you--" Sam breaks off, steps closer, eyes so fucking earnest that Dean can barely stand to look at them. "Do you... like Cas?" He falters and Dean knows why; it's because laying it all out like that makes it seem small and cheap and insignificant when really it's maybe the most goddamn significant thing in Dean's whole life, apocalypses and all, and Dean turns away, waving his hand.

"So..." Sam is looking down at the table, trying to map it all out in his head, like a case he's trying to solve. "What happened? You told him, and he--?" He breaks off, and Dean can hear the wheels turning because the both of them know that that's the least likely scenario. Instead, he hears Sam inhale sharply again, and Dean closes his eyes to another realization that he doesn't want to hear. "No. He told _you_ how he felt, didn't he? And you--oh my _God_ , Dean." 

Sam's anger is mounting, and dimly, Dean marvels at how this conversation is going versus how he'd always imagined it would go; well, back when he half entertained the thought that he'd ever tell Sam about this part of his life. Sam isn't standing here rejecting Dean for who he takes to bed, for who he might want to settle down with; instead, Sam's standing here yelling at Dean for screwing it all up in the first place, and somehow that hits harder than Dean thought it would.

"I can't believe you. And now, _for months_ , you've been sulking around the bunker, while Cas is out there, all because--what? Because of what Dad would say?"

Dean flinches, and then gives him a hard look, a warning, but Sam gives him one right back. Dean wonders how Sam would react, what would happen to that self-righteous expression, if Dean told him that he was worried about what _Sam_ would say, but Dean bites the words back.

"Dad's dead, Dean. But you aren't. _We_ aren't. We fought to live, and now we have the chance to figure things out for ourselves, finally." He pauses, evaluating, his expression still hard. "Does Cas even know how you feel?" 

Does Cas know? Does he really? He clenches his jaw, and Sam scoffs, a hard sound. He spots Dean's phone on the counter, and he slides it over to Dean, whose hand catches it automatically, his reflexes sharp, just like his dad always taught him.

" _Call him._ " 

Dean's sure he can hear Sam swearing under his breath as he storms out of the kitchen, and Dean stares down at his reflection in the phone screen.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't call. Instead, he drives, taking his time, hands sweating on the steering wheel, wondering if he even deserves this anymore, but deeper inside, he knows that it's what Cas deserves. Whatever happens, he's going to repay Cas, finally. And then... well, maybe _then_ they'll be square.

When he pulls up at the bar, the sun is out, the parking lot's full; Dean hasn't really seen this place in the sunlight, and it's more innocuous now in the way that bars always seem to be before the sun sets. Steeling himself, he makes his way inside, eyes sweeping the room for Cas. He finds him at the bar, smiling, wearing a button-down and jeans, as Corey leans over to talk to him. At the bell, Corey looks up and immediately frowns. 

"Not sure you're welcome here," he says, and Cas follows his gaze.

His face is hard at first, but Dean wonders if he can see through him, can see what he's here to do, because Dean's not really sure he's doing a good job of hiding it anymore. His heart's beating in his ears, his breath stuck in his chest, as Cas's eyes flick over him, that happiness of a second ago bleeding out of him. 

"It's okay," Cas says to Corey as he slides off the stool and approaches Dean. Dean notices that Cas nicked himself shaving that morning, the red spot standing out sharply amongst the afternoon stubble that's already begun to fill back in. Cas stops in front of him and lifts his eyebrows, expectant, questioning. Dean's examination of Cas is thorough this time, not letting one more detail slip through the cracks, and he takes in every piece of information like the evidence that it is, to be filed away and cataloged for later.

"Can we... try this again?" Dean manages.

Cas is still guarded, but he nods. He leads them outside, where there's a worn-out picnic table with all sorts of things carved into it, and they sit together, Cas watching Dean carefully, and Dean doing his best to ignore the swirl of emotions inside of him. He tries to remember Garth; he tries to remember Sam's frustration over this thing between him and Cas _not_ happening as opposed to the other way around. 

"I told Sam," he starts, and finally that guarded expression drops, and Cas looks actually surprised for a moment before he squints, watching Dean closely.

"You told Sam... what?" 

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes and leans forward against the table instead, the wood biting into his arms through his jacket.

"I told Sam that I..." Dean gestures vaguely, still unwilling to put things into so many words. "I have a thing. For guys." He looks up at Cas, guilty, unsure, scared. "For you." 

He watches carefully as Cas's surprise grows, as something breaks in the hardness of his eyes, as Cas looks away, also uncertain suddenly. When he's looking back at Dean, he's cautious, skittish like an animal uncertain of a gentle hand being offered.

"What did Sam say?" he asks, and Dean smiles tightly. 

"He told me I was an asshole." That's more true to the spirit of Sam's message than an actual quote, but he says it to watch Cas's eyes crinkle in a smile, which they do, a very small one, and he shrugs. "Not in so many words, but. Basically. He told me to call you." 

It's a bright day, and there are birds somewhere, but Dean still feels like he's fighting to pull air into his lungs, that he and Cas are both pushing against the weight of something that threatens to suffocate them if they can't get it right. 

"And now you're here," Cas says slowly, voice gravelly and strangely light.

"Now I'm here," Dean repeats, and Cas tilts his head at him, frowning, evaluating.

"Why?" 

Cas is giving Dean another chance, one he doesn't deserve, but Dean's ready for it this time, he thinks.

"To bring you back home," Dean says, then amends, "I want to bring you back home. The way I should've done to start with. I want--" He stops, licks over his lips, takes a breath, and then: "I want what you want. Or what you said you wanted, back in the kitchen."

Cas takes a deep breath, his eyes rolling up and away as Dean watches him try to piece all this together, and finally, he shakes his head at Dean.

"I don't know if I can just start over, Dean," he says, a sadness in his eyes, a brutal honesty that he regrets, and it hits Dean harder than he would've liked. He isn't sure what he had thought, if he'd thought Cas would just say yes and they'd get in the car and drive off into the sunset, but he would've preferred that, at least.

"Yeah, okay," he says in a rush, and he leans back, rubbing his hand over his neck. "Yeah, that's--fair. Listen, I'm sorry. I'll go." He starts to get up, but Cas grabs his wrist, and Dean freezes, half-poised to get up. The adrenaline makes Dean feel light, jumpy, and Cas is the tether that's keeping him from bolting out of here. 

"I didn't say I didn't want to try." 

Cas's smile is hesitant, the hope in his eyes cautious, but Dean feels himself smiling back. 

It doesn't take too long to gather up Cas's things, which by now consists of a few books and a few changes of clothes, and for Cas to return the key to the apartment. He tells Corey that it's time for him to move on, and Dean decides he doesn't need to hear Cas say this goodbye as he feels Corey stare a hole in his back on the way out of the door. When Cas climbs into the car, Dean watches him say a silent goodbye to this place, and he waits until Cas turns around and gives Dean a nod.

On the way back, Dean plays Led Zeppelin, and he watches Cas tap his fingers against his knees the whole way.

**~**

Cas was right when he said that they couldn't go back to some time before Dean screwed things up, and Dean knows it the second they get into the bunker and don't know what to do with each other. Dean winds up leaving Cas to settle in, and he finds himself starting to clean all the parts of the bunker he'd been ignoring when it was just him and nothing really seemed to matter anyway. At some point, Sam calls, and Dean tells him that Cas is back, and Sam tells Dean that he's happy for him; Dean doesn't have it in him to correct him, just then, to let him know exactly where he and Cas stand. He lets Sam think that he and Cas need some time to themselves because, well, they do, and then he hangs up and starts thinking about dinner.

He's about to call out to Cas, tell him that dinner's ready, when he turns up, a hesitant smile, a hesitant curve to his shoulders, and Dean hates how uncertain he looks. He nods at Cas's plate and forces a grin.

"I made spaghetti. But I was thinking," he starts, watching as Cas takes his place across from him and picks up his fork and knife. "Tomorrow we can go to the store. Pick out things you like. I mean, I guess you're eating now, so..." 

There's a ghost of a smile on Cas's face as he looks up at Dean.

"I'd like that." 

"So... tell me about this grace thing," Dean asks, and Cas sighs, but tells Dean about how he hadn't come back whole in the first place, that things were slowly deteriorating, but then rapidly accelerated, and now he only has a faint amount of grace left. He tells Dean that he started falling asleep randomly first, started getting hungry next, and that he'd wanted to call Dean the whole time. That one is a slow admission, given cautiously, an explanation for why he hadn't told Dean that neither one of them really needed to hear spoken aloud. 

He tells Dean that he'd thought about praying to Jack, but ultimately decided that this was what he wanted, that maybe he was tired of the push and pull of trying to figure himself out, trying to hold onto who he used to be. 

By the end of it all, their dishes are empty in front of them, and they're both feeling raw, or at least Dean thinks so, judging from the way Cas's shoulders droop. They run out of words, and Cas yawns, and Dean glances at the time.

"You go on to bed," he says thickly. "I can take care of the dishes." 

"No. I want to help," Cas says, determined, and before Dean can protest, he's already grabbing up the plates and taking them to the sink. Dean spends the whole time dreading what comes next, and then it's there, the two of them walking down the hall toward their rooms, and Dean wishes he could fast forward through this, wishes he could look up the ending instead of living in this suspense. 

His room is first, and they both stop, and realization washes over Cas as he looks between Dean's door and Dean and back again, and then he's dropping his eyes.

"Dean..." 

"No, it's okay," Dean's already saying, his hand up, defensive, as he grabs his doorknob and starts opening the door, backing into it. "Good night, Cas," he says quickly, waiting just long enough for Cas to reluctantly say it back, and then Dean shuts the door and tries to remind himself that he left Cas feeling this way enough times; he deserves a few of his own, too.

**~**

It's on his first solo grocery run since he brought Cas home that Dean realizes what it is that he needs to do. They've been living in a kind of tense holding pattern, with the two of them intimately aware of how the other one tastes but unable to get around the pain that comes along with that, which leaves them ending conversations halfway through, awkwardly moving around each other when they bump into each other in the hall, going to bed at different times if only to avoid the mistake of that first night.

Dean knows that this is all his fault, and as he stands in the grocery store and looks at the display of plants by the produce aisle, he knows that he's going to have to put in the work to fix it. Cas already showed Dean how much this thing between them mattered to him when it became the thing that killed him; Cas needs to know that Dean cares, too.

It starts with Dean bringing Cas back a plant, something leafy and dark green, with vines spilling over the edges of the pot. When Cas asks, Dean shrugs and says he thought it'd brighten up Cas's room, which is true, for the record. Then Dean starts making Cas PB&J's for lunch; he tries a rotation of burger recipes, an array of different types of food, paying attention to every sound of appreciation Cas makes and finding more recipes so he can hear that sound again. He never asks, not explicitly, and Cas doesn't comment, not in so many words, but Dean feels his eyes following him every time he sets the plate down in front of him, every time Dean doesn't look at Cas when Dean says, as lightly as possible, that he's turning in and promptly leaves the room, before Cas has a chance to think anything more of that.

They pass a few weeks like this. Sam and Eileen come over for dinner, or they go over there, and Sam picks up on the fact that things aren't quite right, not yet, but beyond telling Dean one night that he can talk to Sam about anything, he doesn't push. Maybe, Dean thinks, he doesn't know how, but he can tell that Sam wants to, desperately.

The first time Dean makes spicy popcorn for movie night, Cas is surprised; he hadn't realized you could do that stuff with popcorn, and Dean has a whole new rabbit hole of recipes to try. Tonight's is kettle corn, something sweet and vaguely sticky, and Cas hums his approval before they settle in to watch the show that Sam's been hounding them to watch for weeks, so he can talk to them about it.

With the bowl between them, Dean tries hard to keep his focus, but still, he can feel Cas's presence on the other side of the couch like a furnace turned up too high, leaving Dean itchy and hot under his collar. He keeps himself unnaturally still, tension vibrating under his skin, and he's grateful for the motion of eating popcorn because he's not sure he could sit still otherwise, over-conscious of his body, of Cas's body, of the uncrossable gap between them that slowly, brick by brick, Dean has been bridging, at least he thinks. 

Their hands brush in the popcorn bowl, and Dean looks up like he's been struck to find Cas staring back at him, their hands frozen, popcorn kernels sticking to their fingers. Dean gives a small, self-conscious smile, and then makes his retreat; he crosses his arms over his chest, even, resolutely turns back to the screen, and realizes he has absolutely no idea what's going on. He pretends like he's intently focused on it though, even as he notices Cas moving beside him. 

He stays still as Cas picks up the bowl, moves closer, and puts it back on his lap. They aren't close enough to be touching yet, but Dean is distinctly reminded of first dates, shy teenagers; he remembers, suddenly and with a deep pang, a time when he sat side-by-side with a boy who deserved more than Dean could give him then because he was just a kid with a lot of living left to do, and a long road before he could be okay with something like this. 

Another few minutes slide by in which Dean eases his posture, his hand creeping over for more popcorn, and then it's another few minutes before Dean carefully rests his arm on the back of the couch, before Cas is leaning toward him slightly, before Dean finally drops his arm to Cas's shoulder and pulls him closer against his side.

He's had Cas's dick in his hand, but this is far more intimate, and far more difficult than the sex that he'd convinced himself was the limits of what he could accept, as long as it was meaningless. There's nothing but meaning to be found here with Cas against his side and, at some point, Dean's nose in Cas's hair, his eyes closed, his heart thrumming in his chest, until Cas is gently saying his name.

"Dean?" 

He opens his eyes to find that the credits are rolling, the countdown to the next episode beginning, and Cas looking up at him, his eyes full of a dark, hesitant smile. 

"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat, and he starts to take his arm away when suddenly Cas's fingers are on his face, sticky from the popcorn, and they stay like that for a moment, Cas's touch stuck to the line of his jaw and Dean staring down into his eyes, to his lips, back again. Cas inches forward, and when they kiss, something lights up in Dean that had long lain dormant, maybe had never woken up in the first place. Cas tastes salty and sweet as their lips move cautiously, reverently against each other, a slow heat building, maybe, but this kiss is made of more than that, means so much more than that, more than any other kiss that Dean's stolen since he brought Cas back. 

They're breathless by the time they break apart, Cas's hand still on his face, and Dean sinks forward, letting his forehead rest against Cas's, letting himself just be here, in this moment, waiting for the uncertainty to die down. At this point, Dean's aware of what he wants, of where and how his feelings lay, and he knows one or the other of them is going to have to make a move. Maybe this is all tonight should be; maybe Dean should let it rest here, let it build slowly, but maybe it's time too for Dean to take a chance, let Cas make the call. 

"Will you stay with me tonight?" Dean breathes into the silence of the room, and beneath him, Cas tenses. "Not like--" he adds quickly, and he squeezes Cas's shoulder. "Not like that."

Cas exhales, a shaky sound, and then he nods. "Alright." 

It was so much easier to make this all seem so effortless when Dean shoved Cas against the wall and kissed him, when he was peeling Cas out of his clothes and asking him yes or no; now, as they make their way to Dean's room, as they half-watch each other half-self-consciously shrug off shirts and toe off shoes and kick off pants, Dean wishes he could find any of that bravado, any of that certainty. Instead, he and Cas crawl into bed, and Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands. 

They stare at one another, long enough for Dean to question everything, long enough for Dean to see Cas start to smile and remember: he wants this. Cas's eyes move past Dean's shoulder, and his smile grows.

"You forgot to turn off the lamp." 

Oh. Yeah. Dean rolls over to reach the cord, and then Cas is behind him, his body warm and his skin soft, and his arm is over Dean's waist. Shakily, he pulls his arm back, settles back onto the bed, rests his head on the pillow. Cas holds him tighter, and it's Dean's turn to have a nose in his hair, breath puffing warm and steady against the back of his neck. 

"Who says you get to be the big spoon?" he says, needing to cut the tension, and he feels Cas's lips spread into a smile against his hair.

"We can take turns," he promises, and Dean's breath catches; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then grabs Cas's hand and pulls it up over his chest, resting near his heart.

**~**

Somehow, Dean falls asleep that night, and the next night, he reminds Cas that it's his turn and hauls him in against his chest. Cas smells like toothpaste and Dean's body wash, and he reminds himself that he should ask, at some point, if Cas wants any of his own. Cas likes to sleep in, and Dean gets fidgety in the morning these days, so usually they see each other again over the breakfast table with Dean still trying to figure out how Cas likes his eggs, and the question of morning kisses doesn't really come up, not until the end of the week.

They've been gradually increasing the amount of touches that they share, but both of them skirting the fact that they've done much, much more than this; Dean figures, well, they've done that, and now they need to work on this part of things, the warm smiles and the hands on each other's backs. They do kiss, here and there, but usually only once they've brushed their teeth and they're about to climb into bed, and Cas reaches for Dean, or Dean catches Cas's wrist, and they pull each other in for a moment, or something longer than a moment, but nothing more than that. 

"Omelettes this morning," Dean says over his shoulder when he hears Cas come in. Cas shuffles his feet in the mornings, Dean has learned. It's early November, but Dean's already starting Christmas lists, and he's added slippers to Cas's. "Ham and cheese, and some of the vegetables you picked out the other day." 

Dean feels Cas's hand on his back and he stops mid-hum, part way through the song that'd been in his head when he woke up that morning. Cas's hand is on his neck, and Dean barely has time to register what's happening before he pulls Dean down for a kiss. It's warm, and it's quick, and then he pulls back with a smile. 

"Good morning." There might be some hesitation there, some uncertainty, but it disappears as Dean feels himself smile in return, something silly and maybe too bright, but then, who's counting?

"Morning," he says, still smiling, still staring down at Cas, before he remembers that he's cooking and has to get back into action.

Somehow, that kiss breaks something, because then they're doing it way more often: kisses hello or goodbye, whenever one of them comes back from the store; kisses to the back of their neck when Dean's cooking or Cas is washing up; a kiss to the top of their head on their way in or out of the room. And more than that, there are hands on shoulders, fingers tangling together across the table. Dean wouldn't consider either one of them particularly physically affectionate people, but each touch feels like an attempt to patch up something, to make up for some kind of lost time. And, maybe, an attempt to deal with the heat that's slowly returning and chasing away the wounded hesitation that still comes over Cas from time to time.

After all, it does take another week or two before they roll over to kiss goodnight and find themselves tearing away from each other's mouths, breathless with hands gripping hips, and it takes some restraint to go to bed instead. A night or two later, they wind up on the couch, Netflix forgotten again as they kiss deeper, and deeper, and Cas's hand is in Dean's hair, and it's Dean who pulls away sharply and puts space between them, scooting away until he can feel the cool air of the room.

It occurs to him then, that night, that the next time they go down this road, it's going to be different. It isn't going to be sex--not that it ever was just that, but now they're both going into it eyes open, and Dean has to recognize that this is going to be some kind of act of love. That shouldn't change anything, but it does.

The first time Sam sees them kiss, it's an accident. Sam and Eileen are over for dinner, and Sam declares that they're finally going to watch that show together, since they can't be trusted to ever get it done on their own. Dean slips away to make popcorn, and eventually Cas joins him. Dean hands Cas the spice shaker and the kernels, and he steps back to let him do it because he promised he'd show him. 

Dean pops a piece of the finished popcorn in his mouth and nods his approval to a waiting, anxious Cas, and Cas grins, then leans in to kiss Dean, the most natural thing in the world.

"Got more beer?" Sam asks from the doorway, and Cas blinks, but otherwise doesn't show any upset over the whole situation, at least until he hears the tightness in Dean's voice.

"Check the pantry," he says, and he starts fiddling with the oven, turning off the stovetop, putting away the stuff for the popcorn. He feels Cas waver behind him, and then take the bowl and join Eileen. 

Dean's still standing there when Sam returns with the beer, and he starts when he hears him.

"Everything okay?" he asks, and Dean gives him a fake smile.

"Sure," he says quickly, but Sam doesn't get out of his way, and Dean looks up, feigning frustration that dissipates when Sam's hand lands on his shoulder. He really hasn't been interfering much, and Dean's been ignoring that sometimes it feels like he's treating him with kid gloves. This is another of those times, and Dean tries to brush past it, but Sam doesn't let him.

"Everything _is_ okay," Sam insists, giving his shoulder a squeeze, and Dean swallows thickly before he shrugs his brother off.

Later, Cas's voice is quiet when he says, "Eileen invited us to Thanksgiving." 

They're brushing their teeth in the bathroom, Cas standing to the side and Dean leaning in the doorway, and Dean hears everything underneath Cas's words. He nods, eyes on the floor, and then turns to the sink to finish with his teeth. It's been a while since he's seen Cas like this, like he's dreading a conversation between them, like he's waiting to be told, again, that he can't have what he wants. Like he's waiting for Dean to disappoint him again. Dean's proven, he supposes, that he and Cas can be this in the bunker, away from prying eyes, but then, Dean's hasn't had any trouble doing this in the dark, has he? 

"What, at their place?" 

Cas frowns around his toothbrush with a nod. Dean takes a steadying breath. 

"No way," he says, and quickly presses on before Cas has a chance to crumple. "If I'm doing the turkey, we're doing it in my kitchen. And I'm definitely doing the turkey." He says that to Cas like a playful warning, like he didn't just agree to something bigger than cooking food, and he watches some of the tension bleed out of Cas. 

Dean gets into bed first, Cas lingering in the bathroom, and when he climbs into bed, Dean catches him, sliding a hand into his hair, and he holds him for a moment, not able to say what it is that he wants to say, but that's also Dean's M.O. at this point. Instead, he pulls Cas in for a kiss, gentle and loving and warm, and he pours what he feels into that instead.

**~**

Thanksgiving is a blur of Dean busy in the kitchen, directing three pairs of helping hands with varying degrees of skill. But maybe, Dean thinks, his favorite part is every time he nudges Cas and gives him a bite of whatever it is he's making--the gravy, the stuffing, the pie--and waits for Cas to give his approval, as he does all day long. There's something looser to Cas now, the more human he gets, and he lounges in the kitchen, a beer in his hand and laughing as Eileen tells a story about a hunt. It's a nice sound, the easy laughter falling from Cas now, and he thinks to himself, unconsciously, that he's glad he gets to hear that for the foreseeable future.

He carries that feeling all through dinner, something soft and squishy and warm and entirely alien to him, almost frightening, but ultimately, it's nice enough that any anxiety is overtaken by the comfort that thought gives him. Ever since that accidental kiss in the kitchen, Dean and Cas have kept their hands (and mouths) to themselves around Sam, an unspoken acknowledgement of the thing that Dean's still working on. Tonight though, Dean lets his hand fall casually on Cas's arm on the table, thumbing over the bone of his wrist, and if Sam or Eileen see, then Dean doesn't know because he doesn't look for it. 

After Sam and Eileen leave, Dean finds Cas in the kitchen, looking around at the carnage, all the dishes and spilled sauce, and Dean could laugh at the dismayed expression on his face. Another thing he's learned about Cas: he hates doing dishes.

"Can we deal with this tomorrow?" he asks, sounding small and vaguely whiny before Dean comes up behind him with a hand on his waist.

"Sounds good to me," Dean murmurs, voice low, and he dips his mouth to Cas's neck. Cas's breath hitches, and he's still for a moment, and then Dean feels him relax against him, lean his head back against his shoulder. This is another unspoken rule, one they haven't broken, this thing of initiating any kind of heated touch on purpose. Dean takes the invitation to map along the line of Cas's neck, and he wonders if Cas can feel his heartbeat against his back.

Cas turns and they loop their arms around each other, the smell of Thanksgiving all around them, the leftover scent of turkey and spices and pumpkin pie. Dean's stomach is full, and his head is vaguely fuzzy from the beer, but he's fully conscious of what it is that he's doing now, pulling Cas close to him, leaning in to meet Cas for a kiss, slow and warm and exploratory. They pause, long enough to look at each other, to look at what it is that they're gearing up for, and then their mouths come together again and Dean doesn't hold back, not anymore, the heat that they've slowly been rekindling. 

Dean makes the decision that if this happens tonight, then he won't rush it along; it won't be some hurried thing, pawing at clothes, Dean racing himself to get to it before he loses his nerve. It's almost painful to remember that moment now, and so he switches tracks and focuses instead on the soft sound Cas makes in the back of his throat when Dean slips a hand in his hair and tugs, softly, so he can kiss him deeper.

When Cas moves them gently to the counter, and when Dean leans back and holds Cas closer against him, he doesn't feel the same kind of panic he did before that Cas was taking some kind of forbidden control, that Dean was some kind of lesser man. He thinks instead of Cas's hand fisted in the back of his shirt and the other slotted in place over Dean's shoulder.

It's Cas who breaks off this time, breathless, lips shining in the overhead light of the kitchen, and he dips his mouth to Dean's neck, kissing a slow, deliberate line from his ear down to the collar of his shirt.

"Pineapple?" Dean breathes, relatively sure of the answer, but wanting to let Cas know that he can still call this off whenever he wants.

"Yes, please," is Cas's hungry response, his voice hot and ticklish against Dean's ear, and he shivers as Cas takes his earlobe between his teeth, clearly charmed by the way Dean reacts. 

Their progress to the bedroom is slow, neither one eager to rush, both of them wanting to reclaim this intimacy in a new light. They stumble to the hallway, linger in the doorway, Cas leaning on the doorframe, Dean's hand pulling their hips together as Cas reaches behind him to brace himself. They nearly trip over each other on their way down the hall, and Cas grabs Dean to steady him; once they're both upright, they laugh, breathy, shaky sounds, barely audible in the hallway, but it's all Dean can hear before Cas leans in again, kisses him again, Dean's back against the wall. 

By the time they make it to Dean's room--or is it their room by now?--Dean feels like they've been at this for hours, and they've only just begun to pull at each other's clothing. Cas has taken to wearing button-downs most of the time, and Dean fumbles to undo this one, a bright, pumpkin orange that he'd teased Cas for; he's interrupted by Cas tugging his shirt over his head and then ducking in to mouth over Dean's collarbone. Dean cradles his head for a moment, his eyes sliding shut, as he tries to catch his breath. He remembers back the past few times they've been here, how he dodged Cas's eyes, how he'd hurried them along, and how even when Cas took charge, there was an urgency to everything, a recognition that it was all temporary.

Now, though, Dean curls his fingers in Cas's hair and holds him steady for a moment, forcing himself to stop and take stock. He remembers being a kid in a hallway, getting a glimpse into a life that he never knew was possible, that was immediately stolen away from him again, and he wonders: what would that Dean would think if he knew that he'd one day wind up here, happy and, strangely, secure? That one day, Dean wouldn't have his dad around anymore, and Sam wouldn't need him anymore, and he'd recognize that for the freeing thing it was? 

Cas notices that Dean's not moving, and he smiles, unsure, and Dean pulls him in again. They keep fumbling their way out of their clothes until, finally, they wind up in bed, with Dean half on top of Cas, their legs tangled together, Dean's cock against Cas's hip and Cas's against his, and still they're taking their time, kissing almost lazily now, hands moving over skin, until Cas nudges Dean onto his side. He sets their foreheads together, their breath mingling, and Dean runs the backs of his fingers down Cas's side until Cas shivers.

Dean has a minute to breathe, just long enough to feel anxious. He knows that there's more than what they've done, just hands and mouths. He's also aware that he's not sure what he's ready for, or what he might ever be ready for, and that familiar tightness starts building in his chest as he realizes that he has no idea what Cas might expect of him.

"Cas," he starts, and his fingers tighten on Cas's hip. "I don't--" He doesn't know how to ask for help on what comes next, so instead he says, "What do you want?"

Cas gives him his questioning, are-you-dense look. "I'd think that was obvious," he says, and Dean laughs, despite himself.

"No, I mean..." He trails off because he can't articulate what he means, and somehow, Cas pieces it together because he's touching Dean's cheek.

"Dean, remember when I said that this was all nice, but only because it was you?" He lifts his eyebrows, and his thumb sweeps over Dean's lip. "That's still true. I don't need more than that." 

_I don't need more than you_ is what Dean hears, and he takes in a shaky breath. That's too big for Dean to grapple with in his mind, and he's still attempting to generate some kind of response when Cas sets a hand on his chest, a steadying, warm presence. Slowly, Cas reaches for Dean's hand and sets it on his cock, and Cas reaches between them and takes Dean's in his hand, all the while watching Dean's face closely for a reaction. 

"Okay?" he asks, eyebrow raised, and Dean drags in a breath and nods.

"When'd you get so good at this?" His voice is raspy, thick, and he watches as Cas grins, self-consciously mischievous in a way that Cas seems to have patented over the years.

"I'm not any better than you. I just don't have as many hang-ups," he says simply, and he interrupts Dean's attempt to process that with his lips on Dean's and his hand moving over his cock, and Dean's mind skips a few beats for a few more reasons. 

As much as Dean would like to stay focused on the moment, he's again stuck in a flashback to the first time he'd had his hand on Cas, Cas trembling beneath him, and a reluctant, poisonous shame running through Dean that kept him carefully avoiding as much of Cas's touch as he could. Now, they're bumping foreheads as they touch each other, and Dean can feel as much as hear every time Cas's breath hitches, and it's more intimate than Dean can process, really. 

It's Cas who tips over the edge first, and Dean wonders if it's because he probably wasn't doing some soul searching like Dean's been doing, or if he's just still new to all this. His last coherent thought, though, is that Cas still comes like it's a surprise, all sudden inhalations and nails digging into Dean's thigh.

They're quiet after, and Dean's heart is beating still because he doesn't know how to read this silence. Cas has face-planted into his shoulder and has his arm snaked around his waist, but even still, Dean feels the panic rise because, again, this isn't some fumble in the sheets; this is everything, now, and even though he's been doing okay lately, he doesn't know if or when he'll screw it up again. Will he be able to take Cas out to dinner sometime? Will he be able to catch his hand in the grocery store without thinking about it, without bracing for something around the corner?

"Dean." Cas's voice is thick and bracing, coming from somewhere underneath Dean's chin, and he tenses, but then Cas nuzzles into him and grumbles, "The light is still on." 

He cracks then, the tension snapping in his chest, and he starts laughing; he rolls onto his back, leaving Cas blinking, confused, worried, as Dean puts his hand over his eyes and laughs, his shoulders shaking. 

"Dean?" Cas sounds small now, and Dean wheezes a little, and when he looks over at Cas, he's transported back to a brothel, and _God_ , has it been that long since he laughed like that, again?

"You're such a fucking grump," he says warmly, fondly, and he reaches for Cas, who leans into the touch as Dean's hand lands on his shoulder. Cas's smile is confused, but pleased, he thinks, and Dean reaches up to thumb over his lip. "Crankiest ex-angel of the Lord." 

These days, it's hard to ignore the reality of his feelings for Cas, but most of the time they sit on a back burner, always on, always there, but not really taking up all of Dean's thoughts. Now, though, he feels the full intensity of them, and he blinks, clears his throat, and pulls his hand away. 

"Alright, hang on. We can go to bed in a sec," he says, rolling onto his side and grabbing around on the floor until he snatches up his shirt to clean them both up. He waits for Cas to settle before he switches the light out, and then Cas moves in against him, slotting his head back against Dean's neck, winding an arm around his side, and Dean huffs a quiet laugh.

"I'm not a grump," Cas murmurs finally, definitely sounding like a grump, and Dean grins above him, though he tries to make it sound like he's rolling his eyes when he replies.

"Yeah, sure. Tell me that again in the morning when you give me the stink eye for getting out of bed." 

"For a hunter, you'd think you'd be quieter when you do that." Cas is still grumbling, but Dean can feel the smile against his shoulder too, and he turns his head to kiss Cas's forehead. 

"For an angel, you'd think you'd be less whiny," Dean shoots back, and Cas, without moving his head from where he's tucked himself against Dean, lifts his hand to extend his finger. 

" _Ex_ -angel. I think that means I can whine all I like." 

To be fair, that one's probably true, and he huffs again as he catches Cas's hand and pulls it in against his chest. Cas's thumb brushes the backs of his knuckles, and Dean takes a slow, steadying breath. 

"As long as you're always this cute about it," he says, testing it out, this level of verbal boldness that he's only ever been able to manage jokingly; this time, he's sure it's obvious that he's only in part joking, and he feels Cas's eyelashes as he blinks against Dean's neck.

"No promises." His voice is warm, and he gives Dean's hand a squeeze, and Dean lets out the breath that he'd been holding onto.

**~**

It's sometime after Cas moves his plant into their room, sometime after they start easing into a new kind of rhythm, a less fraught peace, that Dean half-wakes up one morning to Cas's phone going off.

"Cas--" he starts, voice muffled in the pillow, but already trying to rouse himself, just in case.

"It's okay, Dean. Go back to sleep." There's a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek, and that seems like permission to drop his head back down and slip back into unconsciousness.

When he wakes up the second time, it's to a different alarm going off, and he jumps out of bed, following the sound of the smoke alarm until he finds Cas in the kitchen, looking down at a pan of burnt bacon, perplexed, with one hand over an ear. Dean's panic dissipates as Cas frowns up at him, apology and defeat in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he calls, as Dean steps into the kitchen and starts waving a towel to circulate the air. "I don't know what happened. I just wanted to make you breakfast." The alarm cuts off partway through Cas's sentence, so he yells that last half, and he closes his mouth, self conscious under Dean's eyes. Dean's trying to pull a serious face, but really, there's a smile that's fighting to be let out.

"I hope you learned a lesson here," he says, facade already cracking, and Cas tilts his head.

"What lesson?" 

Dean holds up a hand and gestures at Cas. "Never cook while grumpy."

"I'm not--" But he stops because Dean's smiling widely now, and Cas starts to smile in return before he rolls his eyes. "That's definitely not a rule that you follow," he says instead, and Dean swats at him lightly with the towel still in his hand.

"Years of practice. C'mon. What were you trying to make?"

"No," Cas protests, and Dean stops short on his way to the oven, his turn to be confused. "The point is that I was going to cook for you."

Dean is suddenly and unexpectedly touched, and it's maybe too much for this early in the morning. He stops, smiling almost to himself now, and then he nods. He winds up making coffee and then sitting at the table, only giving Cas pointers when he asks, and otherwise trying not to supervise at all. When Cas sets his plate in front of him finally, he only looks mildly less harried than he had when the alarm was going off, and he's got flecks of egg on the hem of his T-shirt, somehow. 

Cas starts talking about their plans for the weekend, how the two of them are going with Sam and Eileen to the fair because it's in town and Eileen recently discovered that Cas has never done such a thing. While Cas talks about Ferris wheels, Dean waits until he isn't looking to shake salt onto his eggs, and he's halfway through a thought about teaching Cas how to make French toast when he realizes that this is... good. What he and Cas have is good, will be good for the rest of their lives he hopes, and this reality is so far from anything he'd ever imagined for himself as a kid, for a lot of reasons, but maybe at the heart of it is this idea that he could have something _this_ good, this easy. 

He interrupts Cas mid-sentence with a quick kiss, and Cas is giving him his confused smile, a classic Cas look at this point. 

"What was that for?" he asks, and Dean shrugs, smiling, picking his fork up again.

"Just 'cause." Because he can. Because it felt right. He's still smiling and only half-listening when Cas starts in again about how he hopes Eileen's right about there being baby ducks, and Dean starts thinking about what he'll make for dinner.

**~**

It's a quiet Sunday afternoon when his phone rings. They sat down to watch _The Great British Bake Off_ because Sam told Cas that he'd like it, but then Cas fell asleep after about twenty minutes, and it's Dean who keeps hitting the button for the next episode. He places his hand on Cas's head as he digs his phone out of his pocket, doing his best not to disturb him.

Garth's name is a surprise, and Dean's thumb hesitates for a second before he accepts the call. 

"Hey, Garth." He cradles the phone against his shoulder as he picks up the remote to pause the show. 

"Hi, Dean. It's Garth," he says, warm and friendly, and Dean wonders if he shouldn't be annoyed. His eyes fall down to Cas, who's stirring in his lap, and Dean settles a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, man. What's up?" 

"Just wanted to call and say hey." He sounds chipper, which Dean figures is normal for him, but then he doesn't say anything else, and Dean switches the phone to his other ear.

"Um... hey," he offers, and then Cas is sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. 

"Who is it?" he asks, throat heavy with sleep. "And what time is it?" 

"Is that Cas?" Garth sounds _overly_ chipper now, and Dean's chest tightens as he remembers the last time they'd talked, and Garth had been able to guess at some of what was going on, at least. Dean watches as Cas leans back against the couch with a yawn. 

"Uh. Yeah, it's Cas," Dean says back, and Cas looks over, tired but curious. 

"Tell him I say hi!" Garth yells into the phone, and Dean quickly jerks it away from his ear, Cas watching Dean's exasperation mount with a disgusting fondness. Dork. He's still getting used to this, these moments when he feels overwhelmed with a recognition of what they have and there aren't any negative feelings waiting to take over.

"...Garth says hi," he tells Cas, who smiles wryly and then leans in to the receiver.

"Hello."

They smile at each other, enough that Dean has to reign himself back in, try not to laugh, as he pulls the phone back against his ear.

"Boy, it's good to hear from you," he says, sounding as sincere as anybody possibly could.

"You called us." 

Garth chuckles. "'Us,' huh?" 

Dean, against his wishes, stiffens, surprised to have been caught out, but wondering also how much Garth is even picking up on. And then he has to remind himself: it doesn't matter. Right? It's okay. He's okay. 

"Yeah, I suppose I did call you two. I wanted to check up on you; it's been a while, and I was worried." Dean's not used to Garth's frank honesty, and probably never will be, but it's weirdly comforting as he starts to feel the oxygen return to his lungs, as he takes a slow, steadying breath. "But I guess I don't have much to worry about anymore. Do I, Dean?"

Dean watches Cas stretch his arms over his head and then reach across Dean for the remote. He shoots Dean a look as he starts methodically backtracking through the episodes, looking for where he fell asleep. Idly, he leans back against Dean's side, his shoulder a warm, welcome weight against him.

"No. No, I'm good." He picks his arm up and drapes it over Cas, who takes the invitation to lean heavier against him, and Dean wonders if he'll be falling asleep again sometime soon.

"Well, good. I'm glad to hear it." He can practically hear Garth beaming on the other end, actually. "I'll let you go then. But don't forget, Dean." He pauses, and Dean lifts an eyebrow, waiting. "I'll expect to see you for your check up soon." 

He laughs softly, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling, and he hears Garth laugh on the other end.

"Yeah, yeah. We'll see." 

"No way, Dean! I expect to see you back here in the next couple of months."

Dean tries to picture that, turning up at Garth's with Cas in tow--Cas who, probably, should see a dentist, maybe? That's what people do normally, right?--and the two of them sitting around Garth's table, with little Sam and little Cas. It sounds like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, if Norman Rockwell painted domestic scenes of werewolves and, you know, two guys together.

"See you then, Garth." It's a promise as much to Garth, as much to Cas (not that Cas is paying attention, scrolling through his phone now, waiting for Dean), as it is to himself. In a few months, he'll take Cas over to Garth's and take his weird little life a step further.

"And hey, Garth," he says quickly.

"Yeah?" 

"Imagine I'm hugging you." He can't help a smile when he says it, and he feels Cas look up at him curiously, but Dean keeps his eyes ahead. 

"Aw, you big softie." Garth's delight is practically palpable, and it leaves Dean feeling warm and comfortable. 

After they hang up, Cas is still smiling. "What was that about?" 

"Oh, just." Dean shrugs and steals the remote back from Cas. "Garth being Garth. Hey," he says after a moment, "you ever been to a dentist?" 

"What?" Cas asks with a frown, and Dean waves at him.

"Never mind. You missed, like, half the season. If you're going to make me listen to Paul Hollywood be wrong about pie again, you better stay awake this time." 

Cas starts to gripe back at him when Dean comically lifts his finger up to his lips and nods at the screen as the show starts, and Cas rolls his eyes, a little too dramatically, and Dean can see him smile as he leans back against Dean. Dean turns his head and rests his nose in Cas's hair because, well, he's seen this bit already. He can just sit here and close his eyes, holding Cas next to him, and he won't miss anything.


End file.
